


Skidsy

by Arisusan



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unreliable Narrator, Vignette, it's not really plot relevant but the story's def written in limited 3rd person, or rather a series of sketches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-06-25 16:18:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15644400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arisusan/pseuds/Arisusan
Summary: For a bot with patchy memories and an even patchier identity, Skids seems just like the steady, normal type of guy you'd want to have around. Swerve thinks it, a lot of 'bots think it, and Skids himself would probably agree that something there just doesn't fit. Too bad there's not much he can do about it. Instead, he floats along, dropping in and out of the lives of Lost Lighters as he sees fit.





	1. Swerve

**Author's Note:**

> More or less this was born out of me trying to figure out Skids' character and reconcile it with all his significant relationships. Turns out the only character in his orbit that I feel confident in handling is Swerve! There's no real plot or purpose to this.

"What have you got?"

Skids craned his neck, squinting at the show bottles he had lined up. Half of them were the real thing, because Swerve knew his stuff, and the other half were synthetic knockoffs with fake labels, because he had a business to run and honestly, your average mech wouldn't notice the difference after a few pints.

"What do you want?" Swerve countered, wiping down the counter— _ha_! Counter, countered, get it?—between them. Not that it was dirty, or anything. It just gave him something to do that let him stay here.

"No, I mean, I can't remember what I liked to drink, but I might remember it if you list some off."

Now, it was time to fix him with a stare, stopping with a shift of plating. "You've  _got_  to be kidding—do you know how many different drinks there are?"

"Is that a trick question?" Skids asked with what  _had_  to be a shit-eating grin.

"You know," he said, mustering his best scolding voice, "Sometimes I wish I had amnesia. People would put up with me so much more."

"Please. Everyone's so desperate for a drink they wouldn't dare get on your bad side."

Swerve took a second to read Skids' face before returning to his busy work. Nothing sinister, but who knew? The guy was a mystery. Maybe he was some 'con plant, flattering and seducing the insecure bartender to get access to the crew's secrets.

"Swerve? You all right?"

Skids cocked his head to the side, and frowned. Yeah. Maybe that, or maybe he'd just forgotten no one liked him, because Skids was good like that.

"I'm trying to give you a glare. Doesn't work as well with the visor, see?"

Skids laughed, and gave him a wink. "I get it, I get it, you've got better things to do. I'll just take my business somewhere else.  _After_  you give me a drink."

"Do you even have any money?"

"Maybe. Drinks first. Something I'd like."

Swerve sighed again. There were a couple of mechs already trying to wave him down, but they'd spare him a minute for the ever-popular Skids.

"Right. I'll name you three tonight, and three tomorrow, and so on, and you'll choose one and you'll pay me for it and treat me nice. Deal?"

He held a hand out.

"I think I can handle that," answered Skids, reaching out to take it.

But little did he know, Swerve was waiting until the very last moment to snatch his hand away and give him a wide grin and a punch in the shoulder instead. Skids didn't grin back, but he didn't look awkward—small victories.

"Ha! Gotcha! Do you want a Sad Clown, a Motor Mouth, or a Fan Boy?"

"How am I supposed to know what they taste like?" Skids screwed up his face in a way that was way too innocent to be deliberate.

"Hey, that's your problem. Don't recognize it, don't buy it."

"I'll have…whichever one's the sweetest."

"Seriously?" Swerve teased. "I didn't pick you a mech with bad taste."

"It's not bad if I like it," grumbled Skids. Down the bar, Trailcutter had started moping again— _loudly_ —and Sunstreaker was yelling for a drink.

"Sure, you go on thinking that," Swerve shot back as he spun around.

Time to get to work. Thinking for a moment, he grabbed a bottle off the middle shelf, two from the small fridge below the bar, a vial from the back of the countertop and a short, flat glass. A layer of thick, chilled engex was poured in, then swirled around to coat the inside of the glass. It was filled up a third of the way with high-grade, then another third with a dilute flavouring, and topped with the over-sweet aerated and chilled mixture that everyone liked and nobody would be seen drinking.

If Skids didn't know what he liked then, hey, he probably wouldn't know what other people did. Maybe Rewind would get a photo, and they'd all get a good laugh.

The finished product got a quick garnish of bismuth sprinkles and a straw before it got set down in front of a curious-looking Skids.

"Looks good. Which one is it?"

"Sad Clown. It's sweet enough, but if you give it a good stir, the stuff on the sides will dissolve, and it'll get bitter," he explained. "In case you change your mind."

"Good thinking."

"Now, if you haven't noticed, I've got to go and keep Trailcutter nice and sedated." He forced a laugh, wondering why he'd decided to ruin the conversation like this. Self-sabotage was supposed to be Whirl's thing. "Those depressives are good business, don'tcha think? I say we should give Rung a break one of these days, and let 'em all come down here."

"Swerve…"

Whatever Skids was about to say, it stopped when he wheeled off down the bar. He was probably going to say it wasn't funny.

But Swerve had heard enough of that.

…

Skids wheeled gently along the corridor, going slowly. Too fast, and he'd have to make sudden stops or adjustments that might give him away with a creak or a rattle.

Superlearning. Love it or hate it, it made it easy to sneak up on Swerve. He had a loud gait, he favoured his right side, he didn't clean his visor as often as he should, and he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to pay much attention to where he was going.

He stayed just behind him for a minute, taking care not to let his shadow reach forward into his line of sight, before pulling up on Swerve's left side.

"Going somewhere?" he asked, and smiled a bit when he heard Swerve flinch.

"Hey, Skids! Man, you're quiet. They shoulda named you Pads, not Skids, eh?"

He considered this. Skidding involved the squeal of tires, where padding just had the softer and more easily adjustable noise of rubber sticking to whatever surface was being walked on.

"All the best names were taken."

"Tell me about it," complained Swerve. "I'm not even fast enough to swerve!"

"Your feet aren't, but your mouth is," Skids joked.

A moment of silence later, he realized his mistake, and gave Swerve a light punch in the shoulder for a bit of context. He put too much stock in other mechs' words, and not enough in his own.

"It's my one talent, buddy," Swerve answered with a taut little grin.

"Don't forget about your bartending." Skids tried to sound reassuring. "Are you off somewhere, or just taking a walk?"

From the speed he'd been going and the way he veered left and right, Swerve hadn't been going anywhere he wanted to be. Maybe the medbay, maybe security, maybe Ultra Magnus' office. Maybe he was going nowhere at all.

"Oh, nah," Swerve said after a moment's pause, "Just back to the hab suite. Red Alert's still on duty for the next few hours, so I've got it to myself."

"Do you want to go somewhere else?"

Swerve's pace picked up slightly, and Skids lengthened his strides accordingly.

"Where else is there to go? If you want me to open early, you'll have to do a real good job of theorizing at me," Swerve challenged.

"Nope," Skids shot back. "I was going to ask if you wanted to run interference by Rung's office."

"What?"

"He doesn't like to be unavailable, but he needs a rest," he explained, and had to chuckle at the memory. "When I walked by for my appointment just now, he'd plugged himself into the recharge port on his desk. What do you think?"

"Oh." Swerve's voice fell flat for a moment, then went back to its usual brightness. "Sure! You know I'm a master bullshitter. What do you say we get them all to reschedule? Say Whirl trashed the place, or something?"

"Maybe not that, but we can make something up. And if there's an emergency, we'll let them through."

"Unless it's Whirl."

Swerve's humour bounced all over the place, but targeting one of the Lost Light's weirder crew was a favourite. Establishing a common enemy to make the crew feel united, or at least to make them feel like he was on their side. Or maybe it was insecurity and projected self-loathing. Skids was a theoretician, not a psychologist (or a psychiatrist, or a psychotherapist); whatever he'd picked up from Rung, it was probably best to leave this alone. For now.

"Even if it's Whirl. If it's an emergency for him, it's going to be an emergency for us."

"Yeah, you're right." The flatness came back into Swerve's voice, and Skids gave him another tap with his fist.

"I'm always right."

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"The…" Swerve gestured vaguely, and then punched Skids in the arm as he'd done. "The that!"

Skids scanned his fragmented memory for a reason why that was the kind of physical contact he used to reassure his friend. Nothing in particular leapt out at him.

"I don't know."

"Amnesia again. Seriously. How's that working out for you, speaking of Rung?"

They rounded a corner, and found themselves in another empty hallway, heading up towards the lifts.

"Slow," he answered honestly. "I mean, treatment aside, I like talking to Rung, but I still can't remember a thing."

"I've seen you two in the bar a couple of times. Was that part of it?"

"No, I just thought he might be lonely. He's not supposed to socialize with his patients, but when everyone's a patient…"

"Yeah, yeah, it's probably rough. So you two are friends now?"

"I suppose so."

"Well. That's good. Everyone needs a Skids!" Swerve punched the air, but didn't touch him. "So. What's our script? Are we going to talk at them until they give up? Look all professional and write down names as if we're actually rescheduling? Blind 'em with the brilliance of Swerve 'n Skids?"

"Or Skids 'n Swerve. I don't know, but maybe we could do  _real_ rescheduling? We don't want to attract too much attention."

"Oooh, yeah, Mags would have my hide for that. You know, if he's hearing all these rumours about a bar, one of these days he's just going to walk the Lost Light from front to back on every floor,  _just_ so he can throw me in the brig. I wouldn't put it past him to…"

They made their way forward, Swerve talking and Skids watching.

…

Swerve set today's drink down without much ceremony, and leaned over the bar to chat with its drinker. It was near closing, meaning that the clamouring was at a minimum. Just a bit of crying, or some casual conversation. Nothing that would pull him away from this.

"So. Skids. Now that you're finally here, what's up?"

"You can't seriously be asking that."

"What?" He had a sinking feeling Skids would ask him why he tried to slip Mags the strong stuff. And after so long trying to get on his good side…never mind that it wasn't even him! "It's been a cycle since we got back."

"Apart from us dragging Ultra Magnus back on board, Cyclonus getting fendered, Tailgate somehow being some kind of calming-down outlier, and everything else that happened—nothing much."

"Hey, I didn't spike the drink! That was Whirl."

Skids grinned at him, for some reason. Here we go again. He'd never gotten a lecture from a theoretician, but from what he'd heard it wasn't a good experience.

"Don't worry, buddy. Magnus knows that even if he shuts this place down, he can't get rid of you."

"That's me. I'm like a…" he realized he was trying out an Earth saying, and grabbed around for something that fit. "Starscream. I just keep turning up and ruining everything."

"And the rest of us thank you for it," added Skids, raising his Out of Focus in a toast.

"You know," he continued, not really knowing why, "I've got a pretty good track record. I run an illegal bar, I get Ultra Magnus drunk, my roommate disappeared, and I killed Rung. Just about. Tried to."

Skids' smile had been edging away slowly without actually leaving his face, meaning that now it was a kind of grimace. Probably shouldn't have mentioned Rung.

"It wasn't—"

"Yeah, yeah, that's what you said. I still—I  _know_  how bad a shot I am. It's funny! We had a game, on Kimia! How far is Swerve off the target? We made  _bets_."

Good thing it was so quiet. The only ones left were Cyclonus, who'd be leaving as soon as things got embarrassing; Trailcutter, who was gently arguing with Jackpot and Mainframe in the corner, and a few ones he didn't recognize who didn't know and didn't care. So what if he'd tested the merchandise and started yelling at Skids.

 _Skids_. Who'd apparently learned the dear-Primus-I'm-concerned-and-you're-pitiable look from Rung, and had turned it on full-blast.

"Oh, that's me, that's Swerve, can't shut up if my life depended on it. Sorry. It's just—Rung—"

He had no idea what he was going to say next.  _He's kind. He's your friend. He's just someone else I screwed over and didn't take responsibility for. Speaking of which, did Red Alert actually disappear, or is everyone just hiding him from me?_ Thankfully, it was Skids to the rescue. As always.

"You talked to him about it, right? After we visited?"

"Hah! Yeah. I went on about it for ages, but you know Rung, if—" He looked around, just in case. "—if Whirl waltzed up with a corpse and a camera, he'd just look kind and understanding, you know?"

Skids looked at him for a moment longer, then laughed.

"What? This is serious! He's your friend, and I—"

"I know, Swerve. I sat up with him, in the medbay after he got talking again. We had a good conversation of two about it."

"Oh, Primus." Swerve let his head fall down on the countertop, not that it was too far of a distance. "Do I even want to know?"

"I'm not going to spill. Patient-doctor confidentiality. But you can go talk to him, personally, if you've got more to say."

"Does he even want to?"

A pair of mid-sized, gentle hands slid up either side of his helm and lifted his head, so that he looked into Skids' face. Yep, it was kind and understanding. He'd been spending too much time with Rung.

"Come on, Swerve, take a guess."

"Oh, fine. I'll talk to him."

"And cheer up." Skids set his hands on his shoulders this time instead of punching him. "If even the bartender's depressed, then it's time to get out of here. Come on, I'll help you clean up."

…

There was no drinking, there was no talking, there was nothing but cleaning up and drawing so far back into your brain that all the mixed signals from your spark got filtered out.

The ship was trashed. Rodimus was off in a sulk. Half the crew was getting angry, the other half was depressed, now that the high from the fight had worn off. It'd mean good business for the bar, once they got it back up and running.

Swerve sorted glasses into three piles. Cracked but repairable, trashed, and intact. Ultra Magnus, true to form, had made up a list of the rooms everyone was supposed to clean in case of a disaster. Which this was. A disaster. Each bot had to get his own hab suite up to absurdly high standards, and then public areas were split up among the bots on nearby decks.

But good old Mags wasn't up to enforcing it, so mechs just kinda helped out wherever. The bar was a popular place, a fact that surprised him, or didn't. He'd been taken aback at the crowd, until Jackpot asked if there were any free drinks in it for them, when the penny finally dropped, as they said on Earth. It was a joke, maybe— _hopefully_ —but not a surprise.

Between the trashed bar, Skids not showing up, and the fact that no one had stopped by his place since Red disappeared, he figured it was best to say "yes" to the help and forget about the cost.

Sunstreaker and his gang were hanging around the booths, re-installing the fixtures and furniture now that the place was mostly cleaned up. They couldn't move any slower if they tried—some racer he was—but Swerve had no illusions about how much they were doing this for him.

The funerals from a few weeks ago were harder than you might have thought, even now. It was a war, people died, and this was only a couple of years later. Not even. Sure, with the Kimia survivors it was a bit harder, but—come  _on_. The MTOs were built to die. The rest of 'em had it overdue.

But there was a turnout. Half the ship was sobbing into the arms of the other half. Bloody Cyclonus had turned up. Speaking of Cyclonus, Ratchet said he'd stayed there, with Tailgate. The whole time. Swerve had worked through the night cycle to save him and  _translated the cure to freakin' cybercrosis_  and he'd still played second fiddle in terms of friendship. Mechs had cared.

Maybe that's what stung him.

He slid another glass down the bar. The "trashed" pile was starting to get too big for the counter—best scrape it off into a heavy-duty bag, send it off to the makeshift command centre that a few of the more experienced bots had set up. Rodimus was fine when he was dashing off on his own, but he wasn't prepared for this. Ultra Magnus had gotten them into that mess, Drift was a criminal and he was gone, and Ratchet and Rung had their hands full. Tailgate was sentenced to bed rest for months. Rewind was—was  _dead_.

Oh. And Skids had a new friend.

The bag was tied up and thrown in the corner. Hopefully some bot on board with an alt mode that could melt it down, but like as not it was as useless.

Not that he was ever going to run into a fight, but, suppose he was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time—who'd turn out for his funeral? Say a few words? The Legislators had been close. What then?

Magnus maybe, but he wasn't so Ultra any more. Teebs, if he remembered where his engex came from. Tailgate, bless him, and likely Rung, who said he didn't hold a grudge. Honestly, he wouldn't blame him if he didn't show up. He knew he was a real pain in the neck. Or pain in the head. Ha. That was a good one.

Skids, probably. He didn't know. But probably. He was way too nice.


	2. Getaway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more my personal hc than anything based off the text, but I figured Getaway would try to use the information he had on Skids to get him in his pocket, just in case, but decided Tailgate would be a better pawn. And certainly for Skids, Getaway as the one link he has to his missing time would be a bit entrancing.

"Getaway?"

He'd been on his way to the bar—they'd finally gotten the command suites cleaned up, so it was time to start on the rest of the ship—when he'd seen the mech bouncing by with that peculiar gait of his. Something about it made him grin, though whether it was old or new was another thing entirely.

"Huh?" Getaway twirled around without breaking stride, and started to walk backwards. "Oh, Skids! How's it been? Any more coming back to you?"

Skids followed him down the hallway.

"Kind of. Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. D'you have a moment?"

"Well, not really, but for you? Yeah." Getaway's eyes crinkled at the top of his mask. "Come on, where are we headed? I'm fine with the bar, but I'm thinking you might want somewhere a bit more private."

"Seriously, Getaway, if you had something else you were going to do, I don't—"

"Nah, nah." Getaway stopped, looked around for a second, then swung left. "I was only teasing you. That's one thing that hasn't changed. Say, you want to come over to my hab suite? I haven't been there long enough to clutter it up, so that saves us the trouble of cleaning."

"I…yeah, thanks."

"Brilliant! We're already on the way. So, scout, what exactly is this about? Besides your memory?"

Skids sighed. "You knew I was an outlier, right?"

"Unless I'm very much mistaken, you still are. What of it?"

"Well, if I learn a bit about something, I get a feel for it without having to do more…"

"So, you thought you'd take what you know about you  _before_  whatever happened to you, and take what I know about you from  _after_ , and maybe a bit of what I guessed about what happened to you, and then you can figure out what you missed?"

"That's about it." He was…not annoyed that Getaway had read him so well, but it put him off balance. That, and how he'd done Skids' work for him in the conversation, catching each awkward moment before it could happen and smoothly skating over.

"Oh, come now, don't just look confused! You used to be quite clear about when you found me loud and condescending."

"No, no, it's not that," Skids said hastily, "Actually, I'm glad I didn't have to explain it all."

Getaway fell silent for a moment. "Really?"

"Makes things less awkward. I hope you don't feel like I'm using you as, I don't know, some kind of data stick."

"I don't." Another pause, another idiosyncrasy that send a little shiver up Skids' struts. Getaway was as much a mystery as his past, and one he found himself looking forward to unravelling. "Now, that little bot with the cybercrosis—Tailgate, was it? I haven't seen him since we got back. How is he?"

They chatted the rest of the way to Getaway's suite without touching on his memory again.

…

They went piece by piece, Skids starting off with what he could remember, and Getaway filling in the gaps where he could. Not unlike what he did with Rung, except Rung never laughed and told him how they'd scammed every gambling den they'd ever entered with Skids' abilities, and Rung never  _bomp_ -ed him every time he began to remember something else.

It was always in Getaway's hab suite, and he liked to keep the lights dim. He'd offered to turn them back up, and Skids always said he was fine. After all, the low light made it easier to get into the liminal zone where he could feel the shapes of his memories, but couldn't see inside them.

"Skids? You all right, scout?"

Getaway placed a hand on his forearm and shook lightly.

"What? Oh, yeah. I think I just remembered something else."

"Really? This definitely calls for another  _bomp_." Getaway tapped him on the chin, and grinned. "What was it?"

"Not a whole lot. Just…there was someone screaming at me about religion."

"Are you sure that wasn't Ratchet?" Getaway braced his arm against the ledge behind the little bench, and leaned back. "The mech's not too fond of those Circle of Light types trying to bring it up."

"Pffft. No, but it could have been. You should have heard him and Drift go at it, while he was still around."

"I've been meaning to ask…" Getaway's voice was softer now. "What was that business? I've hear people mention him, and Overlord, but I'm still unsure as to what actually happened."

There wasn't a trace of malice in his eyes. Somehow, Skids wanted to tell him everything, and then more, but decided to stick to the official version.

"Prowl wanted to do some experiments with Phase Sixers, so he got Drift to smuggle Overlord on board. He got out, a bunch of mechs died, and at the end of it someone had to pay. That was Drift."

"Hmmm. Can't say I heard about it, being locked up and everything, but that sounds like something Prowl would do."

"From what you've told me, yeah."

"So, was the crew happy to see Drift go?"

Skids flinched involuntarily. "Well—"

Before he could go further, Getaway had placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"You don't need to tell anything if you don't want to. If I've already overstepped—"

"No, no, not at all. I'm not that involved. What happened was, he got named and shamed in front of the crew, and they reacted as you'd expect. Ex-Decepticon, got cocky, caused a lot of pain and a lot of suffering. Someone threw something, and then the rest of them joined in."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Something in his voice must have given away the effect of all this—Overlord, then the Legislators, and trying to pick up the pieces afterward—because Getaway now slid an arm around him.

It was unexpected, and almost out of character. He leaned into it.

Not for the first time, he wondered if Getaway was telling the whole truth about what they'd been in their year together. The pauses, the touches, the soft voice and the smiling eyes triggered something in him, be it superlearning or wishful thinking.

"Like I said, it wasn't as personal to me as it was to some of the others. The weird thing was…Ratchet helped him. They did nothing but argue, as far as I'm aware, but when everyone else was just standing and watching, he picked him up and made sure he was all right."

"Odd. Ratchet is a doctor, so maybe he's learned to value life just a bit more? Or maybe he's just more patient."

"Yeah. But—yeah, that must be it. It's a long story, but there were a couple of nights were a few of us joined in to do a little history lesson. Rewind had found places where groups of us intersected in history. Apparently, way back before the war, Ratchet pulled him out of an overdose. But that was four million years ago."

"If someone saves your life, or vice versa, it's hard to forget. Trust me."

The arm slid off of Skids' shoulders, leaving him just a bit colder.

…

"Okay, okay, I think I got one—here goes." Getaway stretched his finger joints theatrically, and heaved a sigh. "I'm going to a picnic and I'm bringing a box of turbofoxes."

"Still going at it, fellas?" Swerve dropped by with another couple of weak spritzers and the usual grin, pulling Skids' concentration away for a moment.

"Yeah," he answered, returning the smile. "Skids, eight, Getaway, zero."

"Soon to be Skids, eight, Getaway, one!" said his companion indignantly. "You know, I really think I've got you this time. Here's the second one: I'm excited for the picnic and I'm taking some handy candies."

"This is just getting weirder and weirder, eh, Skids?"

"Shhh." Skids was starting to feel it—it took a couple of tries to get the finger and the mouth to line up. "I think…no, that's too obvious…"

"The rhymes?" Swerve continued, ignoring the sign to quiet down. "It's the rhymes, isn't it."

"It's not strictly a rhyme," Getaway pointed out, "And it's not all there is. What about it, scout?"

"M'name's Skids," Skids grumbled. Darn. This one was hard—either that or he was properly drunk. Probably drunk. But—the irregular structure had to be it. Bringing. Taking. Excited for. "Ha!"

"You figured it out?" Swerve asked excitedly. "What is it? Are you going to beat him? Skids, nine, Getaway, zero?"

"Don't keep us in suspense, Skids."

Skids took a sip of the new drink before answering. "Use of not really exactly correct grammar. Simple. You take something to a location, you don't bring it there. And you get excited  _about_  stuff, not for."

"You absolute  _scamp._ " Getaway leaned forwards with a huge grin, and  _bomp_ -ed him in the shoulder. "Even drunk, you've got me in a corner. Right, Swerve?"

"Sure thing!"

Skids didn't pay much attention to the exchange, since the ghost of Getaway's touch on his neural net had lingered longer than expected. As if he'd done this before. As if he was used to it.

"I can't  _believe_  you just insulted me like that. Anyhow, I think," said Getaway, downing his drink in a few gulps, "This will be enough for tonight. Skids?"

It was punctuated by a poke in his arm.

"Yeah?"

"Come on, then. Will you stay or will you go?"

"I, uh, I think I might stay. Need to finish my drink." He held up the thin purple beverage to prove his case. "You going?"

"That's what I just said, scout," said Getaway with a shake of his head and a fondness in his voice. "Same time, same place tomorrow?"

"Sure," Skids answered with a grin. "See you then."

They waved goodbye, and Getaway breezed off. It was fun, these game nights—not the rowdy joy of a good night out with the gang, but something quiet and calming just between the…two of them? Three of them? He made sure to sit up at the bar with Swerve, but he didn't join in with them apart from with commentary.

"Getaway, eh?"

For the second time, it took him a moment to adjust to the world.

"What?"

"You and him. Him and you."

He shook his head, trying to get his wires lined up. "Still not getting it."

Swerve stared at him a moment, then laughed. "Damn. I was going to tease you, but you're too buzzed to understand. I'm just saying, the two of you are getting cozy."

The bartender was just doing his usual busy-work—cleaning glasses, tossing out spare bits of rubbish that got strewn around in the rush—but he hovered close to Skids.

"He's friendly. I'm friendly." He sipped his drink. "You're friendly. 'S why we're all here."

"You keep telling yourself that. Say, what do you think of those new arrivals? Kind of weird, don't you think?"

"They seem like some good mechs." A few gears turned in his head, pulling up a memory from a long chat about a week ago. "Nautica and I got talking about some of her books the other day—turns out the Camiens have a  _massive_  body of literature compared to us, all in a completely different style from the old pre-war stuff! She says she's going to make me a list of recommendations, since I was getting so bored."

He drank again, and watched Swerve slide glasses down the bar to the middle area.

"You're quiet," he said between sips, not really thinking about it.

"What?"

"You're quiet. Not talking as much."

A couple of clear, humming noises punctuated the pause as a damp glass was dried with a rag.

"Oh, yeah. That. Figured I could give it a try, hey? Just kidding. Riptide bet me fifty shanix I couldn't go ten minutes without saying anything, so I'm practicing."

"Good luck."

"Yeah. I'm going to need it."

Skids took a long, hard, unfocused look at him, and finished his drink. Then, he reached over the bar, and punched Swerve in the shoulder.

"You'll do fine. Be sure to buy me a drink with your earnings, eh?"

"Hey, I should have known you were only in it for a drink." Swerve laughed. "You know, it's a good thing you're pretty, otherwise I'd have had you bouncing with Ten to earn your keep. You'd have made a good pair—I can see it—blue and gold, Skids 'n Ten."

"Not as good as Skids 'n Swerve," he said. "Speaking of which, we're having a movie night at Nautica's in three cycles. Want to come with?"

"Is it during hours? Because you know I can't just close down for the night—the public needs Swerve's! I'm practically government! Actually, since Starscream's in charge back home, I'm better than that."

"I'm sure Bluestreak and the others could handle it for the night. Please? It's an Earth one, so we could really use your expertise…" He wasn't sure what tone to go for to convince him, but wheedling had to be worth a try. "And there'll be snacks. Good snacks. Nautica only drinks the best."

"Sorry buddy, the answer's nope." Swerve kept on grinning, and prised his fingers off the empty glass he hadn't realized he still was holding tight. "But you gotta promise me to tell me what you watched, and what you think of it, how about that? And then I can tell you all the stuff you got wrong! It'll be great, hey?"

"Yeah, for once in your life, you'll be right." Skids let him lift the last finger, then quickly grabbed Swerve's hand and squeezed. "See you tomorrow?"

"Can't keep Swerve 'n Skids apart for long!"

"Or Skids 'n Swerve."

…

"That minibot is quite something, isn't he?" mused Getaway, dragging a finger around the edge of his glass.

"Who? Swerve?"

They were waiting for Trailbrea—Trail _cutter_ and the rest of the group to arrive, which had them at a corner booth instead of up along the bar.

"No, Tailgate. Why in Primus' name would it be Swerve?"

"I don't know," Skids said, bristling a bit. Getaway sometimes was a little too honest, but that rarely kept him away for long. "Because he's in the room, so he's the most likely candidate for a random conversation topic, and he came up with a cure for cybercrosis a few months back?"

"Agh—sorry, you know I didn't mean it like that."

"I do, but other people might not. What were you saying?"

"You remember, when I got us out of that cell of Tyrest's, that was a pretty genius move. Am I right?"

"Well, it worked, so I'd say so."

"Hey!" Getaway treated him to an indignant look. "Don't you know you're supposed to say 'Yes, Getaway, you  _are_  a genius?'"

"Yeah," he answered with an elbow in the side, "But I didn't want to give you the satisfaction."

"Easy, scout. Anyhow, it was genius, but I just put it into action. He was the one who came up with the idea to use Chromedome's needles, you know."

"Huh. I don't remember it."

"Someone mentioned it while I was getting it all together, and I was curious about it, so I asked around." Getaway took a sip from the outrageously fluffy drink he'd gotten. What was it? "Turns out he's got a good head on his shoulders. Brave, too. Though you could argue that it's easy to be brave when you're a day from dying anyway."

As Getaway went on, a cold sensation ran down Skids' back, drop by drop. "Are you going to get to the point any time soon, or should I get myself another drink?"

"Come on, Skids, at least give me some credit for  _trying_ to be poetic. What I'm saying is, I hear he's getting out soon, and I'm going to need a reliable wing-man if I'm to get anywhere. Comprendo?"

It was far too late to realize it, but he'd been  _afraid_ of this. So much for superlearning, if he couldn't use it on himself. At least he had a...what was it today...an Epic Fail to drown his sorrows. The name of the drink didn't bode well.

"You're asking me to help you flirt with a 'bot you've known for, what, two days?"

Getaway grinned at him, eyes crinkling just above his mask. "You're right on the mark. I figured it wouldn't be proper to go after him in the medbay, since he'd still be a bit weak."

"I don't blame you. I'd be afraid to flirt in front of Cyclonus, too."

This got a snicker from Getaway, which slowed the sinking feeling in his chassis.

"Oh, shush. So: can I count on you?"

Skids leaned back, and made a show of contemplating. Truth be told, this wasn't a welcome new development, but what could he do? If all Getaway had shown him was just run-of-the-mill friendship, he didn't have a right to stand in his way based on vague feelings that could have been memories and could have been dreams. If it had been something more, then it was his fault for leaving it this long.

"I'm not going to stop you, but I think I'll stay on the sidelines. I don't want to get on Cyclonus' bad side if things go south," he said, grinning carefully.

"Can't say I blame you," muttered Getaway, finishing his drink. "But you just watch— _I_ have a  _plan_."

His eyes narrowed again, but there was something else in it besides happiness that only added to Skids' discomfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also intrigued by the possibilities that existed between Skids and Getaway during their time as partners. Two unstable, pessimistic, highly intelligent operatives with little to lose, stuck with each other for a year? There are so many ways it could have gone. Skids is interpreting the feeling Getaway gives him as something romantic, but it could easily be coming from fear or general uneasiness. Also: this deserves an edit from a me that's awake, but it's not going to get one.


	3. Rung

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in around the same timeframe as Swerve's chapter. Despite the recent revelations, I decided to write it as if LL22 hadn't happened. I really wasn't sure how to write Rung (especially given recent revelations), but I tried to strike a balance between the old, kind mech he is and the more bitter, sad personality that slips out sometimes. Hope you all enjoy!

Rung was a people-watcher by nature and by profession, so it was only natural that he kept one eye on Skids as he stopped by the bar. An hour or so after opening he had sauntered in with a broad grin, attracting his attention, then chatted for a few minutes with Swerve as was his habit before coming away from the counter with an interesting-looking drink that seemed as intriguing to him as it was to Rung. Really, the things chemists came up with these days…

Today, to his surprise, he headed over to the far corner, where a seat in the corner booth afforded a good view of the room and the entrance.

"Mind if I sit?"

"No, not at all. Please do, in fact." Rung patted the table lightly, and gave him a smile to show he was welcome. "What sort of a concoction do you have there?"

"Swerve calls it an A-team," Skids said, eyeing it carefully. "For some reason my engex preferences are part of what's missing, so I've been having him give me recommendations."

He took a comically cautious sip, and seemed surprised, but not disappointed. "Not bad. Huh. Not bad at all. What have you got there?"

"Just plain energon, I'm afraid."

"Why not just activate your F.I.M. chip?" Skids asked, and Rung noted that he didn't wonder why he abstained, or try to convince him to have some.

"I feel like that would just be a waste of engex. The taste really isn't my thing, either."

"Makes sense."

Rung downed a few sips, waiting to see if there was anything Skids had meant to bring up before speaking himself. 'Bots sometimes found it easier to approach him in the off-hours rather than in his office, to ask for help under the guise of friendly conversation. No—that wasn't quite the right way to put it. It was still friendly conversation, just friendly conversation that served two purposes.

But Skids appeared to be paying a social call.

"Something on your mind, Skids?"

"Nope, not particularly." It was a blessedly simple answer. "Wait—I tell a lie. I'm considering asking for a bitter drink next time."

Rung raised his eyebrows. "Really? You've gotten quite sweet ones the past few times. A change of taste?"

"Someone's been paying attention," Skids said with a grin. "I think it's just time to try something new, since none of these is quite hitting the spot. Tell me, are you spying on me? Your eyebrows seem pretty suspicious, and you've even memorized my drinks order."

It was all in good fun—probably all in good fun—but Rung still felt his systems whir in embarrassment.

"Oh, no, no, please, I hope I didn't make things awkward. I just like to observe people. It comes with the job."

"Hey, don't worry. I was just teasing you."

"With your outlier ability, your widely-known memory loss, and not least your grappling hook, you're quite an interesting specimen," he joked, hoping Skids would take it the right way. He wasn't a patient, so hopefully it wouldn't be too stiff.

Skids laughed. Thank goodness. "You make a good point. What do you mean, widely-known?"

Rung thought for a moment before giving a strictly diplomatic answer. "I heard it from a crew member before Magnus came to see me about it, so I assumed you'd told a few people."

"Did I? Probably. I can't remember."

They both laughed, and Rung was starting to find himself charmed by the mech who'd first—literally—swept him off his feet and into the vent, and now talked to him more easily than most others on this ship. Dear Ratchet excepted.

"Anyhow," he said, stepping in before the silence grew stale, "What shall we talk about?"

"I don't know. You're in pretty good spirits, considering what you had to go through with the sparkeater."

Ah, that must have been it. The reason for this visit was Skids' concern about their little caper. Much as it made sense, he couldn't help but feel his spark cool a degree in disappointment. "Just because I'm a non-combatant doesn't mean I've never been in tight situations. A sparkeater has nothing on a personal interview with an angry Wrecker."

"Yeah, I'd imagine." Skids grimaced. "Have you met any, beside Whirl?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you much on the subject," he answered, "But I've written evaluations for many, many Autobots, in prison and outside."

"Sorry, shouldn't have asked. Doctor-patient confidentiality, I guess?"

"Yes. Thank you for understanding."

The atmosphere grew slightly awkward again, and Rung was starting to fear he'd said something wrong when Skids spoke again.

"So you're sure you're all right?"

"Of course," he answered, letting some irony into his voice. "I should know."

"That's good. Primus knows we all need a mental professional." Something made Skids smile wryly. "And I need a conversational partner, since Teebs went and got himself too plastered to speak. What would you like to talk about?"

It was a foreign feeling, to have the conversation steered so gently by someone who wasn't himself, but Rung felt he could get used to it.

"Well, I suppose you must have seen my ship collection."

"Actually, I didn't have much time to snoop around, with the running away and the sparkeater, and that sort of thing."

"Oh, yes, you're right." He kicked himself for a moment, but decided to take the opportunity while it was within his grasp. "Would you mind if I told you about it?"

"Not at all. Are you more into military or transport ships?"

"I'm afraid I'm more interested in the models themselves, and not the significance of the ships. Though, I do like to have them be of a… _historical_ nature."

He paid careful attention as he went on, eyeing Skids for any sign of boredom, but none surfaced. The ship's own mystery just nodded, and asked a few polite questions, and creased his face in a concentrated expression that was more like a student's than a soldier's.

…

A familiar shape, as much as he was able to distinguish them, was sitting at his berthside when he came to.

"Skids?"

"Hey."

His voice was as soft as the light was dim, and Rung found himself temporarily frozen. The audials had come online and were functioning fine, then the new optics, but his frame was slow to react to the pulses sent by his rather beat-up brain.

"What time is it?"

"1600 hours. The docs are keeping the light low, to help you adjust."

"Ah, I see." Likely he'd been recharging and running some more cleaning programs since the last time Ratchet had interviewed him, a day or so ago. "Forgive my question, but why are you here?"

"You've been starting to speak more often since storytime the other day, and First Aid was sure you'd be in good form today, so he gave me a heads up. You don't have to speak, if you won't want to. I just figured it might be nice to see a friendly face that isn't red and white."

"It is."

Skids was seated at an angle somewhere to the side, so that Rung was in his line of sight but not directly. He placed one hand just on the edge of the berth, an open and carefully worded invitation that Rung accepted.

His control still slipped here and there, but the moment they touched Skids' hand enveloped his, saving him the trouble of figuring out his fingers.

"You want to talk, or just sit here?"

"I'm a psychiatrist. I tell people to talk for a living."

Skids smiled at him. "As if mechs always follow their own advice."

"I do want to talk, though."

"Then go ahead."

Still lying back in the bed, he heaved a sigh, "Where do I even begin?"

"Do you want to talk about what happened, what happened to  _you_ , or just…things?"

After a moment's debate with himself he sat up, casting his eyes around as he did. They settled on some gifts—candies from Ratchet, cards, datapads, and one model ship. Intriguing.

"The ship—was that your contribution?"

Skids smiled fondly, and interestingly enough turned his frame language inwards. "No. Kind of. Swerve got really cut up about it, but he didn't know what he could do. I hope you don't mind I let slip that it's your hobby."

"Not at all." Curious. "Swerve, was it? It was kind of him to make that video, you know."

"What video?"

The perplexed expression that settled on Skids' face was genuine, meaning that somehow Swerve had  _not_ told everyone on the ship about this. It must truly have been weighing on him.

"When they were testing my motor skills, they showed me a video of him talking for one hundred and forty-seven hours. Possibly more. I'm unsure. It induced my first motor response since my rewiring."

"A frantic attempt to offline your audials?"

He smiled wryly, or tried to. "I was able to raise my finger in front of my mouth."

"That sounds like Swerve. Tell me, do you want to talk to him about what happened, or would you rather he stayed out of your way?" Skids asked, careful this time.

Rung spent another moment in thought before answering. "I am angry that he shot me, but I know I have no reason to be, and it's clear he's affected by it. I think I'd prefer to talk to him when he's ready."

"I feel like it might be good for you both."

"Yes. In more than one way."

Skids tilted his head to one side like a turbofox faced with a toy, but didn't question him further about that. Instead, he turned the conversation to the ship Rung had mentioned.

"Do you recognize the model?"

"It's one of the Arks, if I'm not mistaken. The technology changes, but there are certain aesthetic features the builders always include to pay homage to the original."

…

A knock sounded on Rung's door during drop-in hours. Not a rarity, but not so common, either. Most 'bots who needed help had either started attending in the first few weeks, or would be in denial for another few months.

"Please, come in. The door's unlocked."

He kept his gaze trained on his datapad as the door opened, careful not to put the mech off-balance by staring as he opened the door. Maybe not the safest idea, on a ship that had seen…yes, had seen what happened with Fortress Maximus…but his audials were as much an early warning system as his optics. They told him now, as the mech walked in, that it was—

"Skids?"

"You've got me there."

Rung froze for a moment, then slowly shoved his reading aside and leaned forward on his desk.

"What brings you here? Has Whirl—"

Skids help his hands up in surrender, and laughed. "No, no, don't worry. I'm actually here for me."

"Really? I thought the mnemosurgeon had agreed to help you."

"He did, at first, but…" Skids frowned, shifting uneasily. "Well, I'm not sure  _what_  he saw, but he said some of my memories were irretrievable, and the rest were so horrific that I'd chosen to forget them."

It took a few moments to process what he was saying.

"Am I to believe that, knowing that they may permanently damage you, you still want to retrieve your memories?"

"Well, when you put it like that it sounds ridiculous," Skids said casually, "But yes, that's what I'd like to do. Do you think you can help?"

"If you're asking if there are methods I can use to help you access your memories, yes. If you're asking whether I will use them…Skids, I—I don't know."

It was a heavy thing, to see one of his few friends stand there without seeming to carry an ounce of worry, and to hear that he wanted to overpower his own defense mechanisms. Certainly, if Rung very carefully administered therapy to combat the trauma of those memories as well as to bring them out, it could be done without destroying Skids in the process, but that was a  _very_ difficult decision.

"Oh. I understand."

Rung cleared out his vents for a moment, wondering what an appropriate response would be. As a researcher, he was intrigued; as a psychiatrist, he was extremely worried; and as a friend, he was saddened that the choice even had to be made between Skids' identity and his health.

"I want to help you, Skids, and it's clear you want to remember who you are and what you did, but if Chromedome refused, I fear there may be a good reason to keep you in the dark. It's not my choice to make, but if you do accept the risks, we would have to proceed with caution."

Skids nodded, solemn now. "That makes sense. I've given a lot of thought to this, though, and I do want to try."

"Very well." Rung placed his hands together, carefully lining up the tips of his fingers. "I cannot give you an answer right away. Would you be willing to give your permission for me to ask Chromedome what he saw? I feel that if I know what trauma you may be hiding, I can try to give you the tools to cope with it as we uncover it."

"Yes, of course. Like I said, a lot went into this decision."

"I appreciate that, and I will do whatever I can to ensure you get what you need. Please, take a seat, it'll take me a moment to draft a permission slip."

A minute, almost exactly, for him to alter the wording of a generic form and hand a copy to Skids to sign.

"See you at Swerve's tonight?"

Smiles came easily around Skids, but not this one. "Of course. I'll hand this in to Ultra Magnus, and I should have an answer for you by next week. I'll likely notify you by ping rather than in person, if you don't mind?"

"Whatever works for you."

"I'll make a note," Rung said, rummaging around his desk. "Where are you off to now?"

"I promised Swerve I'd help him out with some research."

"Hmmm." Certainly it was good for the two of them to spend time together, with Skids' calculated kindness tempering out Swerve's deep-seated insecurities, but he didn't want to mention it to Skids for fear of pressuring him. "If you have an opportunity, could you please tell him not to interfere with Red Alert any more? The poor mech has it bad enough as it is."

"Will do. See you!"

Skids was out of the door with a smile and a wave, leaving Rung's spark brittle in its chamber. The last time he'd made this mistake, it had been in reverse, befriending a patient.

This time, he would lose a friend.

…

"You're looking down, Rung."

Skids slipped in beside him on the bench, tucked away in the far corner near the bar. It was Rung's usual spot when he needed a quiet drink, one with a good location; the bar and the other booths blocked it off from the rest of the room, and unless one of the staff was feeling attentive, not many wandered past. Even then, it offered a good view of the rest of the drinkers and hangers-on.

"Hello, Skids. I was under the impression that I was the psychiatrist, here."

"And I was under the impression that we were friends. You want to talk about it? Or just sit around? I'm happy either way."

Rung ran a finger around the rim of his glass, filled with something bubbly, blue, and likely engex-free. He'd told Skids when they first got a drink together that he preferred energon, mostly because of the taste.

"Perhaps I should have brought my chair along. No, there are some things weighing on my mind, but nothing immediate. Mechs had their problems before the war, so it stands to reason that they should persist after. It's just…"

"You want to hope. I get it. How did this all go down, by the way? I was sure Ultra Magnus would have this place empty after Hedonia."

Skids had heard the story—a story—from Swerve, which Rung likely knew, but he still left the question open for a conversation starter.

"I suspect that whatever his flaws, Ultra Magnus can appreciate that this bar is important for everyone on this ship, and that Rodimus would object to its closing."

"Ah. He threatened to pull rank, did he?"

"Skids, I'm just theorizing."

"So I'm the psychiatrist and you're the theoretician," Skids said, laughing.

"I suppose I could be, for a night."

They sat back, sinking into a comfortable silence that felt as if it could last the night. That said, Rung's eyebrows still creased into a soft frown as he swept his optics around the room, lingering here and there for reasons that escaped Skids.

"Your head healing up all right?" he asked at length, when something caused Rung to wince. "That was a pretty nasty wound."

"It's…yes, it's fine. The medics are nothing if not thorough, Swerve's contribution did its job, and Rewind's sessions were quite entertaining. I never knew your grappling hook was built-in, I'd always thought it was a modification for wartime."

"Wait, you remember all of it? I mean, I guess you would, since you were there, but—anyway, yeah, it's always been a part of my frame. Maybe my blacksmith decided to get creative, or wanted one of his own."

He shrugged. There really wasn't much to say about it, but everyone seemed to have a comment.

"I see. To answer your question, yes, I've been partly conscious since my head was rebuilt. At the time, I wasn't able to fully process and respond to all stimuli, but I was able to store the data in my short-term memory and retroactively analyze it. Quite the heist you pulled off, you and Ratchet."

"I guess so. Back then, I was sure it was the coolest thing I'd ever do."

"And now?"

"No idea," he said truthfully. "It's definitely up there, among the things I can remember, but there's such a big chunk of time missing that anything could have happened. Maybe I went one-on-one with Megatron! Maybe I found the cure for cybercrosis! But I'm sure you hear enough about that in our sessions. What were some of the other stories Rewind told you?"

Rung stared at a point somewhere above his tires for a moment before speaking, probably untangling the memory from the still-fractured structure of his brain.

"Oh, it would take too long to give you the full versions, but I'm sure Rewind could make you a data slug or two. One was about the time Blaster and Perceptor managed to down all cross-camp Decepticon communication, and another was quite convoluted but involved the reason Atomizer is perfectly harmless with a gun, and is never to be allowed near a crossbow."

"I can't say I've heard those before—I might actually ask him. I've already gone through half of Perceptor's recommended reading, and I'm not feeling too inclined to finish it. He said it wouldn't bore me, but what I think he meant is that there was no shortage of new material."

It was his curse, being the eternal student. As of yet, he'd gone through half a dozen packs of media to try and find something, but there was only so much you could do within any one field.

"Well, he is an engineer first and foremost. Have you tried asking Swerve? He's got quite a collection of Earth media."

"Oh yeah, yeah, I already went through about, oh, ten discs' worth? It's good, but it's the same thing—science, literature, music, sooner or later there are a few patterns that repeat over and over again, and once you learn them and recognize them it all starts sounding the same."

"Your outlier ability must make it an even faster process."

Skids could only nod, acknowledging his abilities.

"You got it. The moment I get something down, it starts to get boring. Which is odd, because the first few things I read when I don't know the patterns, I still love them, and so it shouldn't make a difference whether I'm bored or not, I should like them all equally. I don't know. How about you?"

"After 6 million years—or is it 7?" Rung fiddled with his glasses. "Pardon me, I never can remember. Regardless, even a regular mech like me can get bored of common tropes, but there are so many works out there that I find there is always something to entertain me."

"Do you have any tips?"

"Well, I do have a reading list of my own, if you'll forgive me for pushing it on you."

Classic Rung. The poor mech was strict in his profession but a doormat in any friendly interaction. At least he did manage to talk when given a bit of encouragement.

"I'd welcome it. Is it fiction, or professional material?"

"Fiction, mostly. Does that suit you?"

"That's great. Say, I thought you might be interested in history or non-living mechanics, with your ships and everything, but I never knew you were into fiction."

Rung took his glasses off, absentmindedly cleaning them with a cloth whipped out from his subspace.

"In my line of work, you find that fiction is sometimes closer to reality than reality itself. Mechs' conscious minds are constructed of, for lack of a better term, a series of overlapping narratives that they build themselves." He held the glasses up to the light and squinted, checking for spots. "When authors write fiction, they draw upon these stories, attempting to recreate the stories that live in the minds of other mechs for their characters. A good book is both an extension of the author's psyche and an extension of oneself."

The glasses went back on, returning Rung's face to its usual owlish expression. It was deceptive, hiding what seemed to be a sad and serious mech behind a comical mask.

"Good speech. I've thought about that before—well, about how authors put themselves in their work, because sometimes they can get pretty annoying—but not quite in those terms."

"Actually—" Rung ducked his head, seeming embarrassed. "—I've written a few papers on how fiction can be used as a tool to help patients analyse and alter their own mental states. Purely qualitative stuff, nothing hard, but…it is useful. It's why I try to keep up with popular literature as well as my own favourites."

"Huh. D'you mind if I ask you to tell me a bit more? That sounds fascinating."

"Really? You're sure?"

Rung's genuine excitement was nothing short of charming, when you could tease it out of him.

"One hundred percent. Tell you what, if you don't mind, could you send me your papers along with the reading list? It might even be helpful with…" He gestured vaguely at his head. "The whole memory thing."

"Skids, I'd be delighted. Would you rather I start with the theory, or take you straight into my observations?"

He checked his chrono, more for Rung's sake than his.

"Looks like we've got a while to go until closing, so how about theory first?"

"Excellent. You see…"

Rung's company was always welcome—of all the mechs here, Skids supposed he considered him his closest friend, or the one best able to communicate with him on the same level. Some secret part of him felt overjoyed that it was  _him_  who'd gotten a response out of him, that night in this bar—and now the sight of him chattering away happily where he'd been frowning earlier warmed something in Skids' spark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I have everyone's attention, I'd like to share my pet theory that we're not finished with Skids and Rung. Evidence: 
> 
> 1\. Skids' brain was lost in a town overrun by Adaptus' lackeys  
> 2\. The post-Skids grief plotline with Nautica and Swerve hasn't been even close to wrapped up  
> 3\. After Shadowplay, when Skids asks who Rung is, he says it's Rung /forever/, which seems suspiciously specific in light of recent stuff going on  
> 4\. Rung's mysterious function is explored specifically in the context of his grief for Skids  
> 5\. Rung is, apparently [LL 22 SPOILER]
> 
> Alternately, I'm wrong and JRO is screwing with us as usual


	4. Nautica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand this is the relationship that I still cannot figure out. I started writing this whole thing because I didn't have a good grasp on Skids, and Nautica's even harder for me to get down. But, they have so much in common from their interests to their social skills right down to their reactions to trauma that it would be criminal not to have a crack at it.
> 
> This involves a bit of worldbuilding done a la Roberts i.e. just namedropping a bunch of stuff and giving bits and pieces of context! There is a bit of talking about Camien culture, but hopefully it doesn't read like an infodump. Anyway, if you have any thoughts about Skids please hmu in the comments!!

"Hey guys—" Nautica winced as the door to her hab suite cracked open, followed by the sight of Skids' friendly face and the whistling sound of her wrench flying through the air. And Brainstorm  _said_  he was just checking the balance. "Sorry I'm late."

The three of them inside were ranged along the bench to the right of the doorway under the bookshelves and, facing the blank wall they used for movie nights. They'd rigged up a nifty little projector that lived on top of a thick stack of datapads on her shelf, propped up to the right angle and kept in place by a small frame.

"I  _told_ you he wouldn't flinch," whispered Nightbeat, focusing on more important things. "See?"

"That doesn't mean it's right to  _throw_  it at him," she replied indignantly, rapping him on the helm. "Hi, Skids!"

"We were wondering if you were more a reflex mech or a calculation one," offered Brainstorm by way of explanation. "Nightbeat was sure you're quick because of active threat assessment and processing rather than a learned response, y'know?"

"I'm sorry about that," she said. "I didn't think they would test it so crudely."

"If it wasn't your wrench, I'm sure it would have been Brainstorm's mask," Skids sighed, closing the door behind him and walking over to take the place she'd saved beside her.

"Really? It comes off?" She'd seen that there was some kind of olfactory sensor underneath, but she'd always assumed it was a part of him, like a visor, placed over an unfinished or base-model intake.

"Only insofar as your  _arm_ can come off," Brainstorm said curtly. He was probably joking. "Anyway, are we starting the vid, or shall we all just sit around here throwing things at Skids for another hour?"

"Actually—"

"Yes, we're starting." She made sure to cut Nightbeat off before he could drag them any further off topic. "It needs about 45 to 90 seconds to boot up."

"We really need to fix that," muttered Brainstorm.

On cue, an image popped up on the wall in front of them, good quality but marred slightly by the scuff marks underneath the projection. Skids, as the official guardian of the controller (he would keep it away from Brainstorm, for obvious reasons; Nightbeat, who liked to pause to search each frame for background details; and herself, who sometimes couldn't stop from giving a few millennia of context for each little allusion to political events—really, you couldn't properly enjoy the vid without it!) navigated through to the video, setting the Neocybex subtitles on without closed captions.

A chip of a thought flew through her processor and caught her attention as it did, drawing a frown to her face. "Where's Swerve, by the way? He recommended this video, so I thought he might come along."

"He said he can't make it," said Skids quietly. "I think he's not used to having an assistant, so he's afraid Bluestreak's going to mess something up. The bar  _is_  his pet, after all."

They settled in for the opening credits with a few clicking noises, some of them half-transforming so the mess of limbs wouldn't end up tripping anyone or blocking the view.

"This isn't the first time he's bailed," said Brainstorm. Sometimes, Nautica felt that he could be even more tactless than she; it was impressive. There was obviously something weighing on Skids. "You remember to bring snacks?"

"Oh! Yeah, just let me—" Skids rummaged around in his subspace, pulling out a bag of pre-made popped energon, a thermos of mulled engex (triple-filtered, of course), and a few disposable metal cups. "There. Compliments of Swerve's."

He tossed the bag over her to Nightbeat at the far end, and placed the engex and cups on the table in front of them just as the last credits faded into the first scene. The only lights in the room were their biolights, their optics, and the faint reflected light of the projected vid. The blue light it threw on to Skids' face contrasted with the yellow glow of his optics, adding an almost melancholy tinge to his expression. Odd. Nautica wasn't the best, or even the 50th percentile at reading mechs, but she had a feeling about this.

She opened up a private inter-mech radio line, inputting Skids' frequency.  _Anything I can do?_

_Hmmm?_

_You just look like you've forgotten something, and you can't remember what. Or just thinking hard._

_Oh, that. No, I think I've got all the snacks, but you know me. I don't stop thinking._

_None of us do, in here._

An explosion lit up the room—and Skids' face—briefly. One of the humans had apparently decided to execute a suicidal manoeuvre in the process of defending their territory, likely in a sacrifice that would set the tone for the rest of the movie.

_Ha! Yeah, you're right about that._

_Anything else on your mind?_

_Not really. Swerve said he wants to know what we think of it, so I suppose I was just paying too much attention._

Whatever it was, she supposed she wasn't close enough to bother telling. No. That was the opinion of the voice in her head that sounded rather like Firestar. Whatever it was, Skids just wasn't comfortable talking about it right now.

_Right. You should have told me! Comm Nightbeat, and get him on it. He'll over-analyze it to deactivation._

_Like you said, all of us are liable to do it. Except Brainstorm, probably._

_Maybe. Anyhow, it's movie night._

A slow smile crossed Skids' face.

_Yeah. Nautica?_

_Mmm?_

_Thanks._

…

"So?" asked Nautica eagerly, "What did you think? I know it's a bit of a different form from what you're used to, but I feel like the themes really have a lot in common with early-war Cybertronian work! Or maybe that's just from an outsider's perspective. I really don't know."

"Me neither," said Skids, spinning his datapad around on the table between them absentmindedly. "I haven't been able to read as much Camien work as I'd like to. But between the two of us, we've probably got enough for one good analysis."

If you asked him how he came to be friends with Nautica, Skids really couldn't tell you. One day, they'd been drinking buddies, and the next Skids found himself winding up in her hab suite more often than his own for their own little book club. Rung sometimes tagged along, but even with just two of them it worked perfectly. Nautica's collection provided him with something to keep his attention—Cybertronian literature got boring very, very quickly once you'd become familiar with themes of war and moral breakdown—and Skids was near about the only one on the ship who could keep pace with Nautica's reading and the sheer number of connections she made, which bounced like lightning between the artwork, literary pieces, historical records and other trivia in her extensive archive.

"Haha, I think you may be right! Go on, then."

"It's a lot…" He paused, arranging and rearranging the words to try and express it better. "It's definitely a lot wider-reaching that most of what I'm familiar with, in terms of the themes. I mean, you know Cybertronian stuff. If it's pre-war, it's about politics and oppression; if it's post-war, it's about politics, oppression, and war. Not a lot of breadth there."

"Isn't it just? I remember the last tome, goodness, it took quite a toll on me. The first act is your typical Camien family drama, but  _that_  plotline wraps up in the second act, so it's impossible to tell where it goes from there."

A flash on his HUD told Skids that she'd sent a short description and analysis of the genre she'd mentioned. He responded with a simple colon and right parenthesis.

"Huh. Interesting. For me, it was the first part that was harder to understand. It might be just the production processes, but sparksiblings aren't that common with us, and it's really only the Cold Constructed 'bots that have much frame kinship apart from that. And the Functionist-inspired laws before the war put a damper on fraternization between different frame types, so we also don't have the same mix of relationships outside of a war context."

"Oh, really? I suppose I should have expected that, since my cultural studies didn't mention non-elective kinship. I'd just assumed that the death toll in the war had split up most families. Anyhow, you were saying you understood the second half more?"

"Second half compared to the first, yep. And the last third compared to the first third, final tome compared to the…yeah. It kind of sad, but the breaking down of relationships is our literary specialty."

Nautica laughed, and reached over to pat him on the shoulder. "Oh, you poor Cybertronians. I really should have guessed."

"You could say it's harder to deal with the story from a peace-time perspective, if you expect the initial status quo to be reasserted, but all of Cybertronian history has been about a descent into civil war. This wasn't even the worst one, I mean, there were at least two major ones before Megatron came online."

He shifted position, straightening out the leg he'd had folded under him on the room's spare chair, and searched his long-term storage for a quick review of the Primes' civil war to send over.

"That's why I thought it had more in common with the early-war works," Nautica said, "Around about the time of Zeta Prime, you know, since those were mostly written as a reaction to the destabilization and the sense of impermanence. Among Camiens, the author was considered groundbreaking for following the threads of the family conflict to the root and playing it out until Cania murdered Agnus. You know, I had  _no_  idea it would end with that scene—Lotty tells me she could hear me from the next room! What are you laughing at?"

Skids covered his mouth, but only smiled more at the way her expression changed from far-off amazement to a confused frown. "I can imagine. When did you live with her, again? I though it was Firestar who was your  _amica_."

"Oh, uh." Nautica looked a tiny bit ashamed. "You're right, Firestar war my  _amica_ , but I never lived with her. It...from what you've said about Cybertronian relationships it's not quite the same thing as your  _amica_. Lotty and I were roommates in university. She did medical studies, I did complete mechanics—that was a combination of regular mechanics and quantum mechanics, mostly machine-based and not mech-based—anyway, we were idealistic enough to go into the sciences, and we were both running low on shanix, so I stayed with her while I studied. And for a bit afterwards, once I'd graduated."

Her voice had taken on a wistful edge as she spoke.

"So, do you still keep in touch?"

"Actually, we stayed together until she had to travel to finish her studies, and I got picked to go with Windblade. Poor Lotty! It took her nine tries to get her license, but she never did give up."

Something—her fingers toying with her datapad, the forward slump of her shoulders—told him that he should ease off for a moment

"That's another thing I can't get my head around—how did you scientists end up with such bad pay?"

Nautica sat up straight and snapped her fingers sharply, perking up out of whatever reverie she'd been in. He could even  _see_  her optics change focus to read something off of her HUD.

" _That_  would be another result of the long peace and our isolation. It's quite logical, really."

"Mmm? How so?"

"Your Decepticons drove up the price of engineers when they decided to expand and cyberform. They needed ships capable of high-speed travel, and they needed ships that were well-defended and well-armed." Nautica raised a finger for each point. "Then the Autobots chased after, and that did the same. As for life sciences, medics are highly valued in Cybertronian society because of the sheer rate of casualties you all have. That's not to say that we don't die on Caminus, but…mechanical problems don't manifest in uninjured bots until at least 4 or 5 million years. Cybertronians, on the other hand…"

Each finger curled up on itself with a Camien fluidity of motion before she placed her hand back down on the table between them.

"You're right, that does make far too much sense. It's not a real day unless at least one 'bot's dead and another one's got his arm ripped off." He shuddered, not at the thought of it but at the hidden memory of something else. "But that's enough of that misery. Do you mind if I ask a personal question?"

"I may or may not answer it," Nautica said cheerily, clasping her hands like a politician at a press conference, "And I get to ask one in return. Deal?"

"Fine by me."

"Go on, then. I'm intrigued."

"If you lived with Lotty so long, did you ever consider becoming  _amica_? From what you were saying about kinship structures, that wouldn't be too out of the ordinary."

Nautica frowned and brought a hand to her chin, in the way she did when confronted with a problem that would take a moment to solve. "The answer I would give you wouldn't make a lot of sense, so I'll give you a different one instead. It's a good approximation. My answer is: I never asked her, and she never asked me."

 _Ah_. Skids felt a pang of empathy, though he couldn't say just what situation in his own life had inspired it. "I get it. Sorry if I went too far."

"I'm the last person that can fault anyone for ignoring boundaries." Nautica reassured him with a smile and a pat on the hand. "And, I explicitly confirmed that you could ask the question."

"So you did. Your turn, now. Any pressing interrogations?"

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms under his hood, and watched the frown reappear on her face.

"Hmm. I should have had something prepared in case this opportunity came up, but I don't, actually." She pursed her lips, then nodded, seemingly satisfied with whatever she'd come up with. "How about: did you ever have any  _amica_ or  _conjunx_?"

"Fair enough." It was a generic question, but it opened the door for him to confide in her as she had in him. "I can't say anything about the time that I'm missing, but I think I've had…two  _amica_. Chopper was an old friend. We worked as partners for a while, but that fell apart about two and a half, two and three-quarter million years ago. He got more and more into the war, I tried to stay idealistic, and it just didn't work out. Like in most Camien dramas, actually."

"I know what you mean."

"Yeah. Love just wasn't enough to make us get along, you know? I think he died a couple of thousand years later, off on a mission without _me_ holding him back."

"Oh—" Nautica was taken aback for a moment, even hurt. Firestar, maybe? They had never discussed her  _amica_ in detail, but what she'd said implied a bad breakup. "I'm sorry I made you bring that up."

"No, no, it's—it's good to talk about it with someone." He flashed her a small, genuine smile. "And you know Cybertronians. If anyone's had a bonded mate, there's a 50/50 chance he's lost him."

"That's true. You said you had two?"

Now it was she who controlled her tone, interested but gentle, and trying not to push. Not that she needed to; they were already friends, and even, maybe, given a couple more years…

"The second one was Firepower. He and I weren't together too long, but that was a good one. We met when his outlier powers manifested, and they threw us in a division with a couple of others so we could train each other. It was a pretty typical story—you work together, you get to know each other, and the next thing you know you can't imagine life without him."

"Or her?"

"Or her," he corrected, kicking himself for the mistake. It was a bad habit. "Sorry, still new to the whole 'she' thing—there are a good few Cybertronian femmes, I hear, but most of them were far-space explorers, ex-Vanguard, or Arcee."

He shrugged, and Nautica grinned, picking up on the implication that Arcee wasn't someone you stayed close to.

"Windblade has told me some stories about her."

"I can only imagine. Anyhow, I think…yeah, he died in the first confrontation after about a century's lull, twenty odd thousand years after we made it official." Words crawled up his throat that he'd never officially said and sanctioned, though he had thought about them sometimes. "To tell you the truth, I'm glad he died before things could go wrong, because I feel like in a hundred thousand years I'd probably have been bored and he'd have been frustrated."

"That's morbid, but I think I understand."

For a moment, they avoided each other's optics, with Skids scanning the far wall and Nautica becoming suddenly intrigued by the text size setting on her datapad.

"Thanks. It felt good to share that." He paused, realizing that he meant it. "I supposed it'll give you better context for our literature, hey?"

"That's a rather cheerful way of putting it," she said. "Anyhow, back to the task at hand!"

"Right. _Cania and Agnus_."

The both leaned forward on the table, then noticed that they were moving in sync, then tried to backtrack, then laughed at it all. Eventually, Skids leaned on one elbow and Nautica sat up straight with her hands just on the table's edge.

"Now that I know it's the most foreign to you," she started, "How would you interpret the sibling conflict at the heart of the book? For me, it wasn't your usual tragedy, you see—there wasn't any way it could work out well, so the reader doesn't mourn the loss of the relationship, exactly—but it was still so  _sad_  because you know that if they had just separated, they could have been happy."

"So the story's not so much about the breakdown of the relationship as it is about the breakdown of the individuals when forced into a relationship by non-elective kinship?"

"Exactly!"

A few hours of exploration and argument later, they had cobbled together an analysis that Nautica said would make a  _great_ essay.

And made some progress on what Skids felt could be a great friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Cania and Agnus is just off-brand Cain and Abel. Other notes: from what Rewind and Nautica have said about amica, it's a lot more serious of a relationship on Cybertron than on Caminus. That said, I'm assuming that Nautica and Firestar's estrangement is not the norm, even if it isn't unheard of. From what Skids said about Chopper, he's had at least one other amica, but I can't imagine someone as skittish as Skids would go that far with too many people, even if he is a social butterfly. I imagine Nautica's mentioned some of her friends off-hand from time to time, but there hasn't really been the need for her to give her full backstory to anyone, and we know that she doesn't fully explain Firestar until 41-42. 
> 
> Anyway, Skids is alive and also happy


	5. Swerve II (+ a bit of Lotty)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the chapters so far more or less kind of link together with each other and canon, but from here on it'll be slightly more of a coherent story. If you see any mistakes, please point them out! Though, on that note, there's a bit of stream-of-consciousness in places so that could always explain it.

Indie disco. What did it mean? Swerve had told him about indie musicians, and about discos. The former could be anywhere from soft, slow music on organic instruments to a reasonable imitation of Cybertronian stuff. Swerve said they were called "indie" because they weren't attached to any major corporations, meaning that it wasn't even a proper genre. But the point was, they didn't join in on the money-fuelled excesses organics—with their short and squishy lives—were fond of. Discos, on the other hand, were glitzy, light-filled parties that had fizzled and faded even on the tiny timescales of the organics.

An indie disco seemed to be a contradiction in terms, but so Swerve had named it. Bright and fun, yeah, but it wasn't trying to be anything, it wasn't  _for_  anything. Well, technically it was for Thunderclash's not-funeral, but it was each of theirs and only theirs. Independent of factions or crews or any of that. Indie. Yeah, it fit. Either the engex was getting to him, or Swerve was a  _genius_. Actually, on second thought, if the party was this good, Swerve had to be a genius. So it didn't matter.

The personality ticks and Nautica's dancing left him with enough excitement to keep his brain busy for a minute, and he'd since drawn back to hover around the bar and watch most of them. And pointedly ignore whatever Getaway was up to right now. Apart from that, and the whole thing about the people dying which was kind of awkward, it was the perfect mix of entertainment and ease.

For him, at least. He had to smile at the sight of Nightbeat hunched over in the corner next to Rung, muttering to himself and just by pure coincidence having a conversation while he was at it, since Rung occasionally said something relevant when he'd paused to think. Good ol' eyebrows.

His mind staggered around from topic to topic, searching for anything that might be missing. No, no, nope, got that covered, nope—oh! So there  _was_ some unfinished business after all.

And, coincidence of coincidences, he happened to be in just the right place to finish it.

"Mind if I stay here?" he asked, leaning back against the bar.

"I'm not going to kick you out," said Swerve, scuttling over to his end to grab a few abandoned glasses.

"Good. I—"

Swerve bustled away before he could go on, too focused on the music and the job to hear him. Weird, how it was  _after_ he got a deputy that he put more time into the bar, and talked less, and didn't wander around the hallways chatting like he used to. He didn't even come to movie night! Maybe Bluestreak was just better company.

"Earth to Swerve? You there?" he asked, borrowing an idiom he'd probably heard from Swerve. That was sure to catch his attention.

"Hm?" Catch it did, jerking Swerve's distracted gaze around to settle on him. "Oh, Skids! You want something?"

"No, no. I mean, yeah," he rambled, vaguely aware that this wasn't what he'd meant to say, "But it's probably not a good idea, you know? Don't want to make you carry me back."

"Don't want to make me leave you to recharge on the floor, you mean," corrected Swerve, already inching away. Oh, he probably thought he was so clever, going bits and bits at a time and breaking up the flow with little movements so no one would  _notice_.

"You wouldn't."

Swerve flashed him a brilliant grin, one that gave his spark a fierce twinge.

"You don't know that."

"'M an outlier." He returned the smile, though it took a moment to get the pistons to line up and make it even. "I know everything."

"Not quite everything," Swerve said quietly, and slid away again to empty the dishwasher as it went off.

Skids nearly reached after him. Ridiculous. He should just activate his FIM chip and have a proper conversation without slurring and swaying, but somehow that didn't feel like a good idea right now.

He slid sideways, catching up with Swerve's escape to the sink. He was working away at the washing now, wiping a few glasses fresh out of the washer and not likely to move further. At any rate, if he did it'd be obvious he was fleeing.

"Mind if I stay here?" he asked again.

"Skids! I already said 'yes.'"

"But then you ran away."

Swerve gave him a funny look.

"Seriously, I just went to get the dishes. Unless you'd rather help…"

"So it's all right? If I keep talking?"

The stacks of clean glasses were piling up quickly, meaning Swerve was doing real, efficient work for once. Mysterious. A pattern that had to be explained.

"You have officially had too much. Just saying."

"Seriously, do you want to talk?"

Craning his neck, Skids attempted to look Swerve in the eyes without listing sideways any further than he already had. Bloody embarrassing to try and have a chat when you looked worse than Magnus two pints in.

"It's me! When do I ever  _not_ want to talk?"

Hmmm…still not a good answer. It was the perfect time to reach over and tap him on the nose and watch him jump! Just like that. Adorable.

"I won't go on if you don't say yes, 'kay?"

Swerve stared at him, which he really didn't mind, with a brain floating on the buzz of fighting and learning and friendship and engex and discos and  _Swerve's_ and, now, Swerve himself. No, not quite a buzz. Or not a buzz only. It was a comfort, too.

"Sure, dude. Yes, I want you to talk. You're Skids, so you've always got interesting stuff to say."

"Awesome! Did you hear anything about those Camiens?"

Probably better to sit than lean, or else he'd strain his shoulders. What a happy coincidence that there was a stool right there, waiting to be pulled up. A moment's fumbling had it square under him, bringing him down closer to Swerve's eye-level.

"I heard a lot  _from_  them," said Swerve, "But not about. You?"

"They were out helping us fight, so I got their names. The teal one's one of Nauts' friends, a medic, and the firey one is her  _amica_. Don't know about the rest, Nautica says she doesn't know them as well."

" _Amica_? Sure, and you're my conjunx."

"That's what I said," he said, but doubled back when he saw Swerve's face slide into another not-quite-but-kind-of-odd expression. "I mean, they're not as close as they should be. She says everyone thinks you should have an  _amica_ as soon as you're old enough to know what it means."

"Huh. Glad I'm not a Camien. How do even get to be  _amica_ , if you don't like each other? I haven't even been able to get with the people I  _liked_."

"Dunno. From what Nauts was saying, you just kind of ask. Like, maybe there's a contract?"

They both wrinkled up their faces trying to imagine some thing, before Swerve had a flash of realization.

"Hey, maybe it's like an arranged marriage!"

"A what?"

"Arranged marriage. They were all the rage on Earth for a few centuries, kind of thing. Humans' parents would find 'em a partner with as much money as possible, and then they'd sign a contract and live together the rest of their lives."

Skids made a face. "They'd waste their entire lives with someone for  _money_?"

"Guess so. Remind me to show you  _Pride and Prejudice_ , it's a great show about that sort of thing."

"Comedy?"

"Kinda." Swerve tilted his hand in midair. "The girl hates like the guy at first, but the guy's madly in love with the girl, and they don't know how each other feels until the actual proposal."

"Remind me which ones the girls are, again?"

"Girls are she, guys are he," said Swerve helpfully.

"Got it. Man, I've really got to get used to those pronouns. Accidentally called Firestar 'he' earlier."

"You need to watch more Earth stuff."

"I would, if you'd ever come along to movie night," he whined. "We need someone to talk us through it!"

"Aw, you know I can't just leave my baby. Bluestreak's great, but…"

An awkward kind of quiet settled on Skids like so much grime.

"I guess I'll just have to go over to your suite, then."

"You'll be fine, just turn the subtitles on and use your superlearning. What's it for, anyway, if you can't use it for fun?"

No, no, this wasn't right. Not even a little bit. He'd come over here to bask in the fuzzy glow of the indie disco with his best friend, but here he was feeling the edge of the loneliness that crept up on him when he watched Getaway. Everything he said seemed to spin away from him, pushed and pulled and encouraged and denied, and  _just_ when he thought he'd got to what was bothering them, it slipped away.

And Swerve was still just grinning and wiping the squeaking cloth around the glass as he tricked Skids into thinking that he was the same as always.

"It's not the same," he said vainly.

"Dude, you're great, but what makes you think I'm going to say yeah, sure, I'll just take a night off?"

Gah! This was just so…so  _not_ Swerve. The overwhelming wrongness. The awkwardness. The reluctance to even think that Skids might be telling the truth.

"Because I miss you? Because I'm charming when I'm drunk?"

"Yeah, you're right, that's it," Swerve said dryly. "You've got us all wrapped around your finger, you know?"

"You mean  _you_ do."

He was quite proud of himself, staying still when all he wanted to do was just grab him by the shoulders and shake his brain back into some sense.

"Come on, Skids."

He juggled a few words around in his mind, using all his gigabytes of reading material to put together something that might even come close to summing up the sheer brilliance of the light here. Of course, it could all be just overcharged drivel, but maybe  _this_ would finally get through that thick little cranial cavity and do that thing where you pass on a message… _communicate_ , that's the word.

"Take note…"

…

It took a few hours' deliberation after Swearth disappeared to make a solid plan, not even a foolproof one, just something that wouldn't have him sticking his great big foot in his great big mouth  _yet_ again. Good lord. He'd very nearly gone to Getaway, since the sleazy bastard always knew what to say and how to react to spin the conversation, but had ruled it out on the basis that spinning was the absolute last thing he needed. No. This needed to be Skids, and just Skids, always Skids, even if he ended up being Skids and Skids alone…though he supposed it was selfish to even think of himself as alone.

Because he'd seen loneliness.

The logical way to start was not by asking advice, but by brainstorming a bit. No pun intended. Jot down the basics and take a look, try and get the brain down on to the screen without the filter of the voxbox. First: awful, crushing guilt. Second: utter confusion. Third: insidious, creeping doubt.

Honestly, it wasn't great. In fact, it was bad. Kind of depressing. Skids just felt bad, in a lot of ways, and worst of all he had not a clue exactly how bad he should feel, about what, and in what way. Going around and nattering on about it would likely make things worse.

So, in the small and sufficient space of his hab suite, he'd set to editing. Not changing, per se, but cutting out the sharp edges liable to hurt and softening the language, getting at the source of all the badness rather than the badness itself. As he tapped away at the screen, watching syllables pile up into glyphs and glyphs slot into awkward sentences, he found it making less and less sense until the point where he saw it crystal clear and cringed.

He quickly checked the time. Recharge would have to be skipped if he was to get down what he wanted to say.

…

He rapped softly on the door, trying not to disturb any of the patients. Really, it was a small mercy Lotty liked the night shift, otherwise he'd have to find some other way to pass this on.

Not that he didn't trust Hoist, it was just that he'd been here long enough that he might draw some conclusions. Besides, he quite wanted to properly meet the famous Lotty.

"Hmm?"

The mech in question turned from the careful clusters of implements in front of her to glance at the door, likely wondering what anyone was doing here at this hour without an advance warning. Skids gave her a little wave and a sheepish smile.

 _Oh, Skids!_  She commed, not trying to speak through the double glazed walls.  _Be there in juuust a moment._

_Take as long as you need :)_

Velocity finished off the current scalpel with a quick wipe of the polishing cloth, then wandered over to let Skids into the office.

"What can I do for you?" she asked once the door was safely closed behind them. "Most of the patients are in recharge, if you were wanting to visit."

"Yeah, I guessed. I, uh," he hesitated, then remembered that this wasn't any of their other medics but Lotty, who hadn't yet hit anyone over the head for interfering with her work, "I was kind of counting on it. Could I ask you a favour?"

"Depends," said Lotty cheerfully. "Can I write a 30-question quiz? Nope! But I'm sure that's not what you're here for."

"I was just going to ask you to pass on a note to Swerve."

There had to be a chair somewhere in this office, or at least someplace to stand that wasn't right in front of the door. There! He sidled over to lean against a small ledge protruding from the wall, giving Lotty an opening to escape if she really needed.

"Oh. Sure. Would you rather talk to him yourself? I can tell him when he gets up, or I can get Hoist to pass it on."

"Well…he may not actually want to talk, so it's probably best I just leave a message. Do you think that'd be all right?"

There was a hint of calculation in the look Lotty swept over him before turning back to her work, but why that was she didn't say.

"Of course. If he does end up wanting to answer, should I tell you?"

"That'd be brilliant, if you could," he said fervently. "Any way I can pay you back?"

"Not right now, but you can bet I'll remember the offer. Hand it over?"

She glanced over at him, waiting for his assent, then turned and held out a hand to take the datapad he surrendered.

"Thanks, Lotty."

"No problem!" She waved her hand dismissively. "You've been good to Nautica, so I owe you one anyway."

"You're being good to Swerve. Call it even?"

"Sure. So…I guess I'll see you before my next shift? Are you still coming?"

Their newest CMO had busied herself at the desk again, working through their inventory.

"As far as I know. The bar's still going to be open, since Bluestreak's holding the fort."

"Yes, he is."

They stared at each other for a moment, Skids holding it mostly because his optics were nearly fritzing from over-use over the day, and refused to move. Whatever was going on escaped him, but he had a sneaking feeling that Lotty and Nautica would be discussing it sometime soon.

"I should probably be getting some recharge," he offered, noting the tension in Lotty's face that suggested she was on the edge of speaking.

"I would say so.  _Please_  tell me you don't have anything during the morning shift?"

"Nah, it's a pretty light schedule tomorrow."

"Today, actually."

They shared an embarrassed grin.

"Right. Today."

"I'll pass this on when I can."

It was a few seconds after Lotty started moving about the room that he realized he was being gently herded towards the door.

"Thanks, again. And sorry for coming in so late."

"So early. I usually take the night shift, so it's no problem."

"See you, then?"

"Yep. Goodbye, Skids."

The door shut quietly behind him as he made his slow and swaying way back to his hab suite.

It had been a very, very long day.

…

 _Skids_.

The 'bot in question groaned, burying his head further into his crossed arms.

 _Yo, Skids_.

"Shut up," he moaned, and clamped his hands over his audio receptors.

 _Dude_.

Wait…that voice was coming at him from his radio. Of course. He was in his room, which was usually locked.

What was he doing there, again?

_You recharging, or did Bluestreak forget to cut you off the other night?_

Night? It was night now, he'd just come home and plugged in and—

_SKIDS!_

He quickly checked his chrono. Damn. 1000 hours wasn't the middle of the night shift, it felt like it should be.

 _You know what, never mind_.

Finally, his brain kicked into gear and supplied him with the name of the voice. Swerve.

Oh,  _shit_.

_Swerve!_

_What?_

_Sorry, I was still recharging. Tough night out, you know the drill._

_Of course I do, I used to be the one who had to deal with it._

The stiff cables that ran between his joints relaxed somewhat as a wave of relief washed over him. So he hadn't completely blown this.

_Oh, of course. What do you need?_

A few seconds passed in silence, each one ringing in his ear.

_Lotty gave me the datapad._

_Oh._

Really, he mused, this had all gone rather better than it should have. Right according to plan. He'd been able to say what he needed to without forcing any awkward conversations, and he now found himself facing the outcome he'd wanted—hoped for.

It was just that, even though he'd wanted and practiced and run computer simulations for the next step, he had never really had a solid plan. Of course, he could always make it up on the fly and leave his overactive learning centres to their work, but somehow he wanted this to be different.

 _So_ , Swerve said, prodding his brain into the realization that he had, in fact, been suspiciously quiet for a couple of seconds,  _You want to talk, or what?_

 _I'd_ — _yeah, if you're okay with it. I haven't got much on today._

_Me neither. I got let out, but I'm still on medical leave. Bluestreak's not even letting me in, he just keeps stacking the crates up behind the bar too high for me to jump!_

Skids laughed, picturing the helpless indignation on Swerve's face.  _So that's why he's been so smug. Is now a good time?_

 _It is for me but_ — _you only just got up!_

_I'll be fine. After all, I got plenty of recharge. Where should we meet?_

_I, uh, is it okay if we use one of our rooms?_

_Of course._

_You can come over here, then. I'll give you the tour. Hah! They tell me you were rushing a bit when you broke in here._

_Well, whoever's been gossiping, they're right_. This time, his laugh was forced.  _I'll grab myself a cube, then I'll head over. Want me to get you one?_

_Yeah. Sure, yeah. I'd like that._

_See you in a jiffy._

The radio connection cut off with a crackle, leaving Skids alone on his slab with a mounting sense of trepidation.

A cube. Okay. That, at least, was something Skids the secret agent outlier with a grappling hook could handle. One cold with a packet of stims, one warm with a stick's worth of rust flakes.

It had been a while since he fetched that specific combination, his brain murmured treacherously.

But he still remembered it, he snapped back.

…

Hands full, he kicked the door lightly to announce himself.

"Extra-large cube, warm, rust flakes."

"Come on in!" Swerve called, voice muffled by the door.

"You'll have to let me in, first."

"Don't you have the code?"

"They had to replace the lock. I, uh, I was just a bit enthusiastic."

A burst of laughter sounded from inside the room, sparking a soft heat in his chamber.

"Skids, you're a mess. It's 5-3-1-6-5."

The door opened with a beep and a smooth slide once he keyed in the numbers, revealing a somewhat better organized room than he'd seen some days ago. Key features included a lack of a giant puddle of rustwater and energon as well as the clear absence of a cold and dying body.

Unconsciously, he felt his vents stop.

"Heya!" Swerve hailed him from a stool at a busy desk, gesturing to a larger chair on the opposite side of the room. "Wanna hand it over and take a seat, or are you gonna stand there all cycle?"

"You know I'd get bored of that," he said, coming back to himself. He placed Swerve's cube on the desk, and gingerly stepped over a few piles of boxes to get to his chair.

"So," Swerve started, "Any news I should know about?"

They sipped at their cubes, neither making eye contact.

"Not much. I assume Bluestreak's filled you in on everything?"

"Yep. Pulled rank and forced him to give me a detailed run-down each morning. He's a good kid, he is."

"Is he even younger than you?"

Swerve scoffed. "No clue. But if Ratchet gets to call people kid, so do I. He's barely even older than Rodimus, you know?"

"Hah, yeah."

An awkward silence started to creep over them, stopping when Skids tried to spin the topic into a conversation.

"Actually, when you think about it, Megs is only about the same age as Chromedome."

"Really?"

"Really."

"I guess so, with the cold construct thing. But that's just  _weird_."

The conversation went on in small loops from there, meandering in a pattern he feared to break. After all, he'd said his piece; it was Swerve's turn.

"I was waiting," Swerve said abruptly, cutting off a thread following what would have happened if Megatron had reformatted himself into a minibot when he changed alt mode instead of just using mass displacement tech. "Not the whole time, but part of it was waiting."

"What?"

"I wasn't just lying there, or something." His short fingers fidgeted with the edges of the cube. "The first couple of days, I was just using my avatar when my shoulder played up. But after that, I was thinking, this isn't going to get much better, but I wonder if anyone's going to notice? Fun game, kind of thing."

He didn't seem to notice that the faint whir of Skids' vents had stopped, seeming intent on his own hands.

"I was like, I'm going to wait for someone to find me. Someone who can tell it's not really me, who's actually going to care if I'm acting weird. Hah."

Skids didn't dare say anything right now. He'd said, he'd  _told_ him in that message that he did, but he couldn't just expect him to get better in a week.

"Well," Swerve continued. "You know how that turned out. But I'm glad it was you."

"What do you mean?"

"I wanted you to come find me. I remember thinking…Skids. Skids'll notice. He's a superlearner, he can spot a break in the pattern a mile off."

Ice slid down through Skids' spark chamber, melting and dripping into a freezing puddle in the bottom of his chassis.

"Don't know why I expected you to come. I mean, we weren't that close before. You were my best friend, I thought, but—so was Blurr. I'm not that good at reading signals."

"Did you read what I wrote?" he asked quietly.

"Nope," said Swerve. "I appreciate the thought, but…you know. People lie, sometimes, and it's a lot easier to do it written down. Anything important in there?"

It was a good thing Skids' cube was empty, since it cracked in his grip.

"You—of course there was!"

"Then tell me what it was."

He couldn't, not really, not truly. It—damn it, the whole point of writing the note was that he couldn't trust himself to say it, and not chicken out.

"Why didn't you just read it?" he asked.

"Because I told you!" Swerve said heatedly. "It's easier to lie. What, can't you just tell me?"

"I—"

"Oh, you know what, never mind. You were only friends with me 'cause I wouldn't leave you alone, so the moment you had anyone else, you ditched," Swerve rambled on. "Getaway, and Rung, and the newbies, and Nautica, and—I didn't expect you to be my best friend, but I also didn't expect you to  _stop_. Hah, you don't even see Eyebrows anymore."

"That's not what I meant," Skids said, knowing it was fruitless. "I thought you wanted some space."

"I was there for you!" Swerve continued as if he'd never spoken. "There was noise, and gunfire and I heard you and—Skids, I was so  _scared_." His voice cracked miserably. "I tried to help you. But that didn't work. And then I tried to comfort you but I couldn't help you, I can't help anyone and we weren't even friends but I forgot and I didn't know what to do when—"

"No," he interrupted, determined to at least try and set him straight. "We were. You're my friend. You've every right to be angry with me, since I haven't been a good friend lately, but—"

"Were we? When you ran off with Getaway and didn't even bother to help with the clean-up? When you only ever talked to me when you were getting a drink? When I was dying and you didn't even notice?" Swerve's vocals spiralled up into near-hysteria. "The only things I was to you were a distraction when you got bored of everyone else and an annoyance when you got bored of me. Don't tell me that you haven't been a good friend lately, because you weren't even one in the first place!"

His words hit like a punch, ringing in Skids' ears.

"I—I think I should go now," he said, after a minute.

"Yeah, you should."

He walked to the door and paused for just a moment on the threshold, fighting the urge to look back.

"I meant what I wrote," he said, finger hovering over the keypad, "If you want to read it."

Once he was clear of the room he had to stop for a minute, waiting for the world to come back into focus and make sense.

Something was up with his optics. They were—he brushed his fingers along the edge of one—they were warm. Hot. Blazing.

It hurt.

…

Some time later, after comming Rewind to ask him to ask Chromedome if there was any way to DIY a memory wipe, Swerve set his overheated optics on the slim pad on top of all his piles of accounts and menus and textbooks and just about every type of pad you could think of.

It took a few moments of a few different types of fidgeting, nervous pacing, and quiet, agonized chatter before he picked it up.

A few moments after he started, his free hand moved to his mouth.

Shortly after  _that_ , his visor started to brighten, flickering and beaming in the darkened room.

When he'd finished, then reread, then finished the note for a third time, he quietly lay himself down on his slab, and shut off in the middle of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So
> 
> a) Skids is definitely drunk in the first section. I'm actually a teetotaller, so I have no idea if that's how it's supposed to go, but I imagine it's similar to being up at like 2 AM and having no filter between your mouth and your brain, and also having your brain stop working for things that aren't song lyrics or crippling insecurities.
> 
> b) Rung and Nautica have definitely talked about things and Nautica's talked about that with Lotty, so she knows that Skids and Swerve are pretty close and that they're worried about Skids, but Skids isn't letting much on, which is why she's being a bit cagey
> 
> c) Speaking from experience, when you're in the grips of a Bad Time you get irrational and start feeling like everyone hates you, but you also want to feel betrayed by everyone who let you feel so bad, and you want people to psychically know what you're feeling and what you want at every given moment and know that when you say 'i'm fine leave me alone' you ACTUALLY mean 'do not go further than five feet from me until next week'. So, even though it's stupid, Swerve's projecting all his hurt on to his friendship with Skids, where really them growing more distant is only a small part of his issues and more of a symptom than a cause. Logic is for suckers
> 
> d) In 42, Skids just goes up to Swerve and seemingly out of the blue says more or less 'you're great, look at all the great things you've done, you make us happy and we love you' and that's just....yeowch


	6. Rung II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was thinking...I should write another little Rung chapter, since it fits. He's the other one who's closely involved with the arc in 43, and he's probably better for an existential crisis-induced talk than Nautica, given how trauma's been an integral part of Cybertronian experience but not Camien experience.
> 
> And then LL 24 came out and then I cried a little bit and I HAD to write something
> 
> Anyway, it's not much, but I feel like we can read their dynamic just a bit differently in light of that. Also: literally anything anyone says involving Skids has a bit of dramatic irony in it, but especially this chapter

Something was wrong.

"Mind if I sit?"

"Not at all."

Though they'd seen more of each other since Brainstorm's little escapade, it was rare these days for Skids to pass by his friends and amble over to the shadowed booth next to the bar. And rarer still for him to collapse into the seat in silence.

Something was wrong, Rung knew. He might be willing to bet a few shanix that he knew exactly and precisely what, and he would certainly be able to make a little flutter on what the general issue was. This was not the time to mention it; instead, he watched the milling crowd and calmly sipped his drink.

"What flavour have you got there?" Skids asked at length, nodding towards his cube. "Looks good."

"Thank you. I just asked Bluestreak to make something calming, so I'm not sure, but I think it's a bit of a cocktail of transition metal shavings."

"Huh. I might have to have one of those."

Oh?

"Did you miss your evening cube?" he asked, probing gently for an explanation.

"Nah. I mean, yes," said Skids tiredly, "But I was expecting to have something here."

"I'd recommend it, then. You look like you might need something calming."

It might have been too far, he worried briefly, crossing the thin line between their professional and personal relationships, but then Skids smiled.

"Good advice, Eyebrows. Be back in a moment?"

"Sure."

In the time it took Skids to slide out of the booth and catch Bluestreak's attention, he felt a familiar pang of regret that Skids had come to  _him_  for help. Were he just a friend, he would never have to wonder about his own motives, not quite knowing if their friendly conversations were too distant and calculated, or if their work was too intimate for a patient and a doctor. Here, for example, a part of him longed to break down recent events and show Skids the detailed diagram of Swerve's psyche he'd built up, tell him what to do and when to help and why.

But it felt wrong to try and fix things. This was something too important to Skids to do for him.

Rung's fingers tapped each other and knotted together, belying a nervousness that didn't suit his age.

"You're right," Skids said when he returned with his cube. "It's a good mix."

"Thank Bluestreak." He tapped his glasses, refocusing on the shimmering liquid. "Though, do I see that you changed the recipe slightly?"

"Yeah! I've picked up some things. You can tell I've spent far too much time up at the bar…"

"Lucky." Rung cut in before the awkwardness could get a hold of them. "Cooking is a valuable skill."

"Especially now that we don't have to deal with the shortages."

Skids settled back in his seat, pensive. Though his eyes were on Rung, he seemed not to be in the same world, staring at something written on the glass panes over his eyes.

"What do you need?"

"Hm?"

"You're not drinking," said Rung, tactfully leaving out the other things Skids did that didn't fit, "If I were to guess, that means you want to have a serious conversation."

Across the table, his best friend shrugged. "Yeah. Engex is fun, but when I'm tipsy I miss things. And I suppose I realized that I've been missing too much lately."

"That's why I stopped, a long while ago. That, and the things I've done after a pint."

"Was dancing involved?"

The tension between them was slowly dissolving, letting Skids' frame unfold and loosen.

"Yes, unfortunately."

"You weren't too bad at the disco the other night," Skids teased. "It's not too easy to keep up with Nautica."

"That  _is_  what she told me," he said, "But I find myself wondering if she was trying to spare my feelings."

Though it was meant to be a joke, he realized as he said it that the fragile ease in Skids' manner had shattered, leaving him with a stiff smile. Oh,  _dear_ —

"Even if she did," he said softly, "At least it means she wants to protect you."

Rung puzzled over his words, trying to tease out exactly how it related to what he'd assumed Skids had come in for, and what may have happened in the mean time.

"Yes, yes. I'm glad to have her as my friend," he said. "Skids—if there's anything you need to say…"

The sentence trailed off into silence, inviting Skids to fill it with whatever weighed on him.

"I'm being a bit of a mood-killer, aren't I? Sorry about that. What I wanted to ask was: how have you been?"

"Sorry?"

"I see you for my appointments," Skids explained, "And when we all spend time together as a group, but I realized—it's embarrassing, that a couple of people had to point it out to me—that I haven't been able to spend much time as I want with you. Just as a friend, not a patient, you know?"

Rung was often tactfully silent, sometimes surprised, and always quiet, but he was rarely dumbstruck as he was now, as the conversation crossed the bounds he hadn't realized he'd set for it. This was, needless to say, not part of the plan.

"Rung?"

"I—sorry," he stammered, "I just—oh, for some reason I'd assumed you were here to talk about the party, or what happened—I was overthinking it. I suppose I've fallen into the bad habit of treating conversations like appointments."

Skids only smiled at him. "Hey, not your fault. You're not the only one who does that, you know. I've decided that from now on, if I need your professional advice rather than a good chat, I'll book an appointment. So: how have you been?"

"Busy," he said before he had a chance to think, "Goodness. I'm glad that I've had the opportunity to give people the treatment they need, but what that means is I'm seeing a few additional patients, and I have to conduct regular evaluations on even more. Which wouldn't be too strenuous, but considering that a lack of attention to detail for some of those…anyhow, there could be consequences. Severe consequences. So, I'm busy."

"You're a doctor as much as any of the medics. The work never stops."

"No, no. It doesn't."

"And apart from work?" Skids leaned forward on the table. "I know it's a big part of your life, but you can't exactly talk about it in detail, so…"

"Yes, you're right," he said sheepishly. "I am still working on a model, though I haven't been able to buy any new ones of late, with my work schedule. I wonder, if I'd known what I was getting into, whether I'd have brought more from Iacon."

Skids smiled wryly. "From what I've learned, this whole thing was doomed from the start. The closest thing we've got to balanced personalities are the Nautica and Velocity, and  _they're_ the oddballs at home."

"Oh, I suppose that's true." He sighed faintly. "With as much suffering as we've had, it will take a few millennia of peacetime to even hope to heal."

"It's a good thing you're durable," Skids said gently. "We'll need you to last."

"We'll need us all to last."  _You especially_ , he wanted to add, but couldn't.

"Yeah."

Never mind Skids,  _he_  was the real mood-killer. Yet it was difficult to talk for any length of time without coming back to the sheer awesome, awful chaos that was the ship's population.

"Have you heard anything from Ratchet?"

"No, I'm afraid I haven't. Why?"

Now that he thought about it, one would think that Ratchet would keep in contact after venturing alone into deep space.

"No reason," Skids said simply. "It's just that First Aid is gone, and he's not been too close with Rodimus lately, so the only people I can think of that he'd want to talk to are you and Percy."

"You have a point. He likes his time alone, so I imagine he's taking advantage of the circumstances."

"Yeah. Bit of a surprise, that he left."

"Not particularly," he corrected, allowing a sly smile to cross his face.

Skids blinked at him, staring blankly, then nodded after a moment. The mech was perceptive, once he ignored his heuristics, but to see him realize just how shortsighted he could be was genuinely funny.

"You're right. Ratchet kept saying he never meant to come back from this, and he and Drift had a connection that went past what I knew of it from our little story session with you. So, Ratchet's left us in good hands and gone out to reconcile with his past and do one last good deed. How's that for a three-second theory?"

Skids marked the end of the statement with a finger-gun, drawing out a laugh.

"You really are something, Skids."

"I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing."

"It's a good thing." He reached across the table and patted the blue-and-red hand resting there. "You're a good thing."

He'd expected a smug grin, or possibly an embarrassed smile, but the shocked look he received wasn't one of the ones he'd expected. It made it all the more a relief when first Skids, then both of them, dissolved into laughter.

The conversation stumbled on, sometimes stilted but never hard and as much a comfort as a warm cube. Skids was right; they hadn't been able to talk like this in some time, and he hadn't truly realized how much he missed it.

How much he missed Skids.

When the night was old and the conversational fuel depleted, a bit of the earlier tension returned to Skids' frame.

"Hey, Rung, would you mind if I broke my own rules for a minute?"

"And what rules would those be?"

"No asking for advice while we're being friends."

Rung's spark shrank slightly; perhaps he'd been right all along, and that the long talk was just Skids paying in advance for his services. Then he had to chide himself, since he knew that even—even if that  _was_  the case, all it meant was that Skids knew how much he liked these talks and liked him well enough to give this to him as a gift.

"They're your rules. Actually, I was expecting you to ask over an hour ago."

Skids laughed. "Figures. I was sure you'd guess something was up, but I  _was_  telling the truth when I said that wasn't why I came."

"I know," he said, walking on a knife's edge. "I trust you."

Painfully sincere, was what Ratchet had once called him. Watching Skids flinch at his words and slouch almost imperceptibly, he knew there might be some truth to that.

"How do you always know what to say?"

"Is that your question?"

"Yeah. I mean, besides all the training—I know the theories from the books you've lent me," he said miserably, "But it's not made me any more useful when it matters. Case in point."

He waved a hand over the table between them, but Rung had a feeling that this was only one aspect of his troubles.

"I don't know, outside of what I've learned and what I've experienced. Not really."

"Then why have I never seen anyone properly angry at you?" Skids flashed him a tight half-smile. "Unless they've all mixed up your name, but I doubt that's the case."

"Luck, I suppose. The reason I'm out here is because I've picked fights with some of the others in my field." A small lie, but it was what Skids needed to hear.

Truthfully, he never knew exactly what other people were thinking or feeling. But he knew that he didn't know, and tried harder to understand  _because_  of that.

"I can't imagine it. What would you say would be the best thing to do, then when you've tried to be honest, but it's not enough?"

"That's far too general a scenario for me to give good advice, I'm afraid."

Their eyes met, Skids' helpless and his own hidden, framed by drawn brows.

"I—I tried to talk to him."

"I'm glad. That must have been difficult for you."

"No kidding. Key word is 'tried.'"

"Hm."

"Yeah," Skids continued, looking down at his hands on the table. "Didn't go so well. I can't blame him, but—it was like it didn't matter what I said."

Rung only nodded, drawing out the rest of the story.

"I just—I wish I could say something he could hear. That's all."

"You're having trouble being noticed and you're asking  _me_?"

That, at least, brought a spark-melting smile to Skids' face.

"Seems stupid, doesn't it?"

"People don't always think things through."

Skids nodded, then paused to think it through for once, then nodded more slowly.

"Yeah. You're right."

"And," Rung went on, "This isn't the first time he or you may have hurt someone without meaning to."

They sat quietly as Skids considered what he'd said, fidgeting with his long-emptied cube.

"I—theoretically, most of the people I know have died."

"Theoretically?"

"I don't know how many people there are that I've been close to."

"Oh, yes. I should have known."

Skids tipped his cube, watching one last drop of energon slide along its inside edge.

"I'm not going watch any more of them go, if I can help it, I think."

Of course. Skids had been the first one to see the body, and so soon after Trailcutter.

"Sometimes you can't," he said carefully. "Help it, that is."

"Yeah. But sometimes you can."

"Then we'll try."

He said it automatically. When had he started to think in terms of  _we_?

A second later, he realized that Skids was staring at him, and held his gaze.

"Thanks, Rung."

"It's what any of us would say."

"I know. But I'm thankful it's you." Skids paused, face drawn again in worry. "You know I care about you, right?"

"I…yes. Of course. Are you all right?"

"Your guess is better than mine. I think I just realized that second chances are hard to come by."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skids has a Mancunian accent. I'm not sure about Rung, but I'm open to suggestions


	7. Swerve III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is where I FINALLY live up to my tags. Somewhat. I've been sitting on this for a while and it's never quite gotten to where I want it, but here's some communication! And unrealistic fluff! And drastic overuse of italics, em-dashes, and ellipses!

There was a small datapad leaning up against the doorframe when Skids wandered back to his room.

 _Skids_ , it said,  _I read the note you left._

_I'm sorry. I said some stupid things._

_I didn't think I could hurt you._

…

Suite 43 still had one clean berth and one cluttered one, though Swerve had taken some time to tidy. It was supposed to establish some kinda control over your environment, Rung said, make you feel like your life wasn't as big a mess as it was.

He still didn't know if it was working. Sure, he was feeling a lot better than he had been a week ago, but let's face it—a rabid turbofox had more of its life on track than he had. There was also the whole thing about shouting the best friend he had left out of the room, but hey! Now he had Cyclonus on side! Close enough. One friend for another. Truthfully, things could be a lot better, but they had also been a lot worse.

Honesty, now that was something else new he was trying out. That hadn't so much been a conscious decision as a stupid mistake to make when Skids was finally,  _finally_ talking to him again. But then he'd mentioned it to Rung and according to  _some_ people, you were supposed to be honest about your emotions. Pshaw. He knew full well that not a single mech on here fit the bill, with their stupid smiles and their stupid comments and their gosh darned  _encouraging remarks_ when the best thing for all involved would have been for everyone to just shout at him until he shut up and locked himself in his room without the holoavatar going about.

Rung had also told him to try and logically extend and self-deprecating thoughts like that. Let's have a go:

1\. They laughed at his stupid jokes.

2\. Meaning he was an idiot for believing them.

2a. Also meaning that they chose to pretend to be happy to make him feel good.

3\. Meaning they valued his well-being.

He almost resented it, when Rung pointed it out to him, since if that were true and they actually didn't mind, then the whole humiliating months-long tantrum he'd thrown was over nothing.

Stupid.

It made it even worse, if that was even a possibility, when he remembered the times Skids had tried to convince him to come out and share the things he loved, or go out and have fun, or when he touched him just lightly and shocked him like static.

Geez, now that he thought about it, Rung and Skids were pretty close. Even if they didn't hang out much these days. Were they talking about him? Looking at that pathetic excuse for a 'bot they'd dragged out of a puddle of rustwater who couldn't even suck it up and die, leaving them to deal with the mess?

He breathed heavily, cycling air through his overclocked systems.  _Come on, brain_ , he urged,  _activate those logic centres Rung talked about_. Rung didn't spill patient secrets even when he was staring down old Max. And Skids wouldn't make him.

It was still the early morning. His brain had kicked him awake when it tried to subconsciously tackle that time he saw the DJD in the new context of the past week or so, bringing up bad memories like bile. There was still some time to continue cleaning up and listen to an audiobook so he didn't focus all of his processing power on his issues.

And wait for Skids.

He'd left the note at his door, since there was no way in  _hell_ he was going to run the gauntlet of talking to him in public. Especially since, as he considered what the hell he'd done and what he was supposed to do now, he realized exactly why Skids had left him a datapad instead of talking. That brought him brought an instant replay of the argument, which made him set the pad down and book it back to number 43, where he had a nice good cry and watched some North & South for catharsis and QI for distraction.

Funny. He'd been expecting Rung to ask him to spill his guts from the first appointment, but what he'd said is that sometimes it's better to wait until you're ready to confront your emotions.

Well, he was ready now. For some of it. Definitely not all. No, this was millennia in the making. But he was ready to pick apart exactly why he felt so attached to an short, unbalanced relationship with a mech who didn't even know who he was. Yeah. Totally.

You know what, never mind, that was a big fat lie. He was barely ready to fess up that he'd gone and loved a genius amnesiac. But hey! That was something. Better than nothing.

A few chapters later, when he'd finally managed to get his desk sorted out, there was a knock on his door.

He didn't notice it at first, ears tuned to his book, but the second set of raps got his attention.

"In a minute!" he yelled, scuttling over to open the door before he thought about who it could be.

"Hey! What can I do—"

As usual, his mouth outran his brain, starting with a cheerful greeting that didn't quite get out before his pistons froze and left him staring blankly.

"Skids."

"Hey."

More staring. This was  _really_ awkward, and now that he noticed it, they both seemed to be trying to shuffle away from each other without actually moving their feet, ending up with them both in twisted postures and Swerve staring intently just below Skids' chest.

"Uh, you need something?"

Skids shrugged miserably. "I was wondering if you'd like to talk again, sometime…?"

"Oh. Yeah. I would."

A second later, his brain prodded at him, telling him he needed to maybe say something about  _when_ sometime was, since Skids was obviously giving him control.

"Is…now…okay…?" he stammered. "I mean, I got up early but I wasn't exactly  _planning_ on being anywhere today, since I'm still supposed to be off work since my shoulder's not healed up properly, and all the other stuff I like to do for fun can kind of be wherever, since all I need's a media player and there's one built into my frame, you know."

"That—that works," Skids said after a bit. "Can I come in?"

And here he realized he was blocking the doorway.

"Oh, sure!" He quickly jumped out of the way, stumbling as one of his feet came down on the corner of a box. "Yeah, sorry, that was kinda stupid."

"Not stupid, and nothing to be sorry for," Skids said softly as he stepped past him, into the room for the third time since  _it_  happened. The guy was going to be a first-hand witness to the power of getting control over your environment.

"That's what Rung keeps saying."

"See? I'm right." There was just a shadow of the usual smile on his stupid, stupid face.

"Yeah, yeah, sure you are. You want to sit on a chair? I've actually, like, cleaned some stuff, so we have four entire sitting surfaces."

"How about the bed?"

Weird. Swerve had to spin around and stare at him, make sure he wasn't playing around. "You sure? Ratchet keeps whining that it's going to strain my struts, not sitting on proper chairs with proper backs. Well, kept whining. Velocity's a lot better about it. She just tells me that if I want to be in crippling pain in a couple million years, I'm right on track."

"I hope you're listening to your medics," Skids said, and it  _had_ to be a joke. "Wouldn't want us to make her as bad as the Hatchet."

"What's it to you? You've never shot anyone's head off. Only time you ever ended up in the medbay was—" The words tripped him up like a damsel on a train track. "—when the Legislators got in. And I'm pretty sure that was a one-time thing."

"Maybe, maybe not. We've still got Ten."

"Oh, god," he groaned.

"What?"

"I don't even want to think about that. Did you know that he was sentient?"

Skids quieted down pretty quick, tilting his head to the side.

"No, not before."

He was probably just saying it to make him feel like less of a tool, but he'd take his comfort where he could get it.

Swerve hopped up on the bed, close to the wall, and Skids took up his place beside him. Actually, it was a pretty good idea of Skids' to sit here. Meant they didn't have to make eye contact.

"So. I take it you found the junk mail I left on your doorstep?"

"I read what you wrote, yeah."

"Oh, wow. Okay. Guess that means I have to follow up on that, hey?"

"You don't if you don't want to." Skids shrugged beside him. "I just figured it'd be better to tell you in person that I read it. Make sure you'd know I wasn't lying."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess so. But I think I  _do_  want to."

"I'd like that, then," Skids muttered. "Listening to you. If that's all right by you."

"Sure." He laughed nervously. "Not much to say that I didn't already."

"Never thought I'd see you short on words."

Swerve huffed at that, mentally doubling down on the knowledge that it was probably, almost certainly still a joke.

"Hey, you should know by now that I'm full of surprises."

"Yeah, you are."

Skids braced his hands against the berth and leaned back. Was probably just a coincidence that now Swerve could feel him in his space, and could—if he really,  _really_ wanted to—reach out and grab his hand.

"So. Um. What d'you want to hear?"

"Whatever you want to tell me."

"Already kinda did that," Swerve said, realizing only as Skids' frame crumpled that he thought he'd  _meant_ it, not just wanted to rant.

"Then," Skids said thickly, "I want you to tell me what you need."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I guess I've been trying to make life easier for us, but you've been sick for months." He tapped his fingers absentmindedly on the bed. "You were right. I didn't get how weird it was, that we only ever talked at the bar. And you turning us down so many times, and all the other things. I'm a superlearner. I should have noticed, like you said, and I didn't. And you—"

"Hey, it's fine," he said casually, and tried to push back the shame welling up. How'd he managed to be such a drag on Skids  _and_ everyone else, too? "I was trying to make you guys think everything was okay! Throw you off the scent! Plus, I never meant it to get that bad."

Something in the silence after told him it wasn't the right thing to say, though he'd be screwed if he knew what was.

"Did you?"

"What?"

"You said you never meant for it to get that far."

The brief look Skids sent his way was a kicked-dog kind of thing. So maybe that was a lie. Whatever. He hadn't consciously decided to let it go that far. He'd told himself and told Skids he was just waiting for someone to come. Skids was best, but Tailgate, Rewind,  _anyone_ would have done.

But he hadn't so much been waiting for someone to find him as waiting for a reason to stop. And he'd had plenty pointed out to him.

Didn't stop him from staying there.

He honestly…couldn't deny it, not completely.

"Dude, don't blame yourself." They both knew it was a lame cliche, insincere after what he'd already said. "I swear, I didn't mean—"

"I  _should_  blame myself," Skids shot back. "Some of it's rational, some of it's not—I've no excuse."

"I was talking out of my ass the other day, you know. Not a single piece of logic in there, 'cept by accident."

"This isn't about what you said. Well." Skids paused, throat clicking. "Kind of is, but it's not what you told me, it's what I knew."

"Then…?"

"I knew you had trouble with things sometimes. I knew you  _were_ having trouble. I knew you'd never ask for help. But when you needed me…you…yeah." His voice was just about hoarse enough to be shoved in a stable. "I'm not going to go through that again. I'm not losing you."

"Hey, you can already mix a mean—"

Skids' hands were suddenly on his face, turning it gently so that their eyes met.

The world skittered to a stop there, a record scratch and a freeze frame. All subplots and sets ground to a halt, leaving four things alone in the darkness: Swerve, Skids, Skids' hands, and Swerve's shuddering spark.

"Please," Skids said. "I know you've got every reason not to, but—I  _need_  you to trust me. Be serious. Tell me what I need to do, so that I don't hurt you again."

The writer was making a real dick move here, dangling closure right in front of him. One of 'em was probably going to drop dead next scene, before he worked up the courage to really talk about things.

"Skids…" His vocalizer started to crackle out of control. "Don't do this to me."

Skids immediately go, as if he'd been burned, and Swerve caught some of the horror on his face just before he stood up.

"Sorry," he said stiffly. "I shouldn't have pushed like that. I'm—I'm sorry."

"Nonono, no," he stammered, catching Skids' hand before he could escape. "Nope,  _please_ , I—"

"Are you all right?"

Come on, come  _on_ …he just needed to say something!

"I didn't mean it like that." The words bubbled out of his mouth. "Don't go. I meant, you shouldn't have to do this. Not for me"

"Do what?"

He looked up at Skids, then forced himself not to chicken out as Skids' eyes turned back to meet his. "I should be able to take care of myself. You've got better friends, and…if we go on like we've been doing, you know, you pity me and I stalk you…I think—I'm  _pretty_ sure I'm only going to hurt you. If that's possible. Maybe I already did.  _Or_ , you're going to hurt me. Take your pick."

"Swerve, listen—" It was probably just him, but there was something almost like a laugh in Skids' voice. It didn't go too well with his face. "There is honestly, literally nothing you, personally, could do to hurt me more than d—than what you just did. You know that."

"What? Projecting a stylized simulation of Earth? Throwing a fit? Skipping movie night? Hah, I promise I wasn't trying to be that rude…Skids? Skids? You okay?"

It was hard to name the expression on Skids' face, but he'd take a stab and call it mild terror this time. It was an important distinction, when you were getting into the genres. You were  _horrified_  at something that had been done, like in the slasher flicks, and  _terrified_  about something that could happen, in the thrillers.

"You know I'm stupid," he said. "You've got to tell me when I something."

"How—do you not realize you were  _dying_?"

Oh.

"Huh?"

Dying? Really? He was just kind of sitting there, not…rotting, or something gross like that. Lying there, if he was keeping to his honesty thing. Besides, he'd gotten hit ages back, it wasn't like it was new.

But…he  _had_ kinda said goodbye and blacked out.

And Tailgate had said there'd been energon everywhere. Said it was a hell of a mess to clean up, even for a specialized mech like him.

Lotty told him he'd been the first life she saved.

Swerve felt his visor flare slightly as it hit. A realization, is what it was.

It wasn't fun.

Things had come back to him in bits and pieces over the course of the week. It was kind of polite of the universe to do that, considering he didn't have the brainpower to understand all of this at once.

"Was I really going to die?" he asked, asking two people at once.

Skids' hands hung in midair between them, reaching out but stopping. They hadn't ever been this shy with touch, not then, not even when it happened, but—oh. That's what he thought it was. He thought it would hurt him.

Skids was just about the dumbest genius he'd ever met, after yours truly.

"Swerve, can I touch you?"

"Please."

It was a pathetic little squeak, but Skids still slid closer and wrapped his arms around him, tucking him into his side.

"You're one of my best friends," he murmured, "And you're in pain,  _and_ there was a time there where I didn't think you'd make it out. Tell me what to do."

They stayed wrapped together for some time. Though he'd needed this badly enough to give into it, the touch was still a cold comfort. Same as Rung's sessions, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was part of the little play they all put on to get him back on the level.

His fingers moved, curling around the edges of Skids' plates.

It was probably good, how quiet he was. Swerve could almost, just about, not  _quite_  pretend there wasn't anyone listening in on the noises he made.

" _You_ be honest," he whispered, once he was sure enough he could speak. "Tell the truth, 'n all that."

"What?"

"Don't pretend to like me, don't laugh at my jokes if they're not funny, and don't say things like this if you don't mean them, because _I don't know_ ," said Swerve with a sniffle, "If I mean as much to you as you're kinda implying here, or if you're just here because you're guilty. And I mean it this time—don't say I'm your best friend when I'm not."

"Oh, Swerve."

Skids pulled back, looked at him with a face so sad it didn't suit Skids at all and at the same time seemed  _too much_ like Skids, and pressed a kiss to his head.

"I swear up, down, and sideways that I'm telling the truth. I love you."

"Huh. Weird." It was all he could manage to say.

"You don't believe me," Skids said evenly.

"Nope. Sorry. 's just hard."

"Yeah." Skids' hold around him tightened again. "I can't say I really understand, but I think I know something to help with that. Your medium-term memory still doing all right?"

"Oh? Yeah. Lotty said she had to re-upload some stuff from my backup, but it's settled in by now."

"Good."

"What's this about, then?"

"You're a scientist. You've formulated a theory based on the evidence you have. But I'm a theoretician, so my theory's better than yours. I'll tell you the facts, and you'll see what I mean."

"We'll see about that."

One of Skids' arms loosened around him and started to stroke up and down along his back.

"Let's start at the beginning. It would be…your second memory of me, I think? Until I climb up into the vents. Could you pull it up for me?"

It took just a couple of seconds to review it, though Swerve couldn't see the point. It was like every other first meeting he had—sidle up, chatter, watch their expressions freeze into an awkward grimace. Hey, at least it meant that anyone who  _didn't_  escape from him within the first five minutes was going to be a decent mech.

"Got it."

"Good. How does that one support your hypothesis?"

"I don't know. You kinda did diss me when I said I wanted to be friends, so I s'ppose that means you didn't want to be friends. I'm not too good at that boundaries thing. Totally didn't blame you for it. And then you kinda ditched."

"Hmm." He felt Skids resting his chin on his head. "Not entirely unreasonable."

"You got a better explanation, Mr. Outlier Theoretician Dude?"

"You bet. If you look at your recordings again, you'll notice that I followed you out when we were all splitting off,  _and_ I started rambling to you about me, myself, and my memory problems. Plus, I said we'd make a pretty good team."

"Pretty obvious that you didn't know me, or you'd never have told me."

"Could be right. But the key thing is, we do make a pretty good team, and I don't regret it. Think about it—if you really were annoying enough to drive me away, I'd have gone off with someone else when they called the lockdown."

Swerve gave up. "Okay, yeah, that works. Still, that was ages ago."

"Like I said, I was starting at the very beginning. Let's skip over now to…when the Legislators were crawling all over us."

"Conveniently skipping that time you guys all left me alone to deal with Mags."

"I guess so. But you've already put together a solid argument on one side, so I'm building one on the other side."

Swerve cocked his head up, trying to read whatever was on Skids' face. Meh. Nothing but melancholy, nothing that'd help him find any ulterior motives.

"You don't need to do this, y'know? It's not your fault I'm dumb."

"Nope, it's not. Are you on the ship's network right now?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I've got a few memory files I need to send you. They're just about loaded."

"Sure, toss 'em over. You want me to go over them?"

"Yeah, I'd like that."

Sure enough, a few clips and snippets of combined audio/visual/visceral feeds landed in his inbox.

But something kept him from opening them.

"You're  _sure_ you're okay if I see these?"

"I spent quite some time thinking about this. Trust me, there were a load of embarrassing parts I made sure to edit out."

Skids' hand suddenly brushed over his back where it met his shoulders, drawing a giggle out of him before he could stop it.

"Hey, cut that out!"

"Just checking if you were still ticklish."

"I am not. Just for that, I'm hoping you forgot to remove the embarrassing bits."

"Open the files then."

"Fine, fine, have it your way."

It took a second to convince his firewalls that this was a trusted source, but once he'd done that— _oh_ —

…

"…ve? …ou…o…? Sw…ve? Swerve? Swerve? I'm—"

Skids anxious face slowly faded into view as a hand gently tilted his had back and forth.

"I'm okay! I'm okay. How long was I out?"

He sat up quickly, got pretty dizzy and immediately fell back into Skids' waiting arms, then gingerly made his way back to some kind of upright position. One of his hands had automatically moved over his spark chamber, feeling around the ache there.

"Fifteen seconds, or so."

"Hah," he wheezed, "That's barely anything! I just came off of three weeks out on the floor, y'know."

"Sorry," Skids said sheepishly, "I probably should have toned down the sensory input."

"I—no. No."

What the files blasted out at him was the same old mortal terror he'd felt loads of times, but it nearly clocked him out without the usual wind-up you got in fights.

Skids had been really,  _genuinely_ afraid of those guys, as much as him, but what he couldn't have believed was that he was scared for all of them. Same as he'd been. And scared for  _him_.

He knew  _he'd_ been freaked out as could be about losing Skids, but for some stupid reason…he hadn't even  _imagined_ that stuff could work the other way around. Except, it did. His own frantic shouting had gone and stuck him in the spark. Skids was worried.

More than that, it wasn't the exasperated kind of worry old Cyclonus had for them all, but something a hell of a lot keener and deeper and driven by something that felt an awful lot like—

 _God_ , he'd been so. Scared. Whichever one of them he was.

"Sorry," he whispered.

"Why?" Skids' thumb brushed across the back of his hand. "What's the matter?"

"It's…nothing," he paused, then realized the joke and started to laugh. "That's it! It's nothing. Nothing's wrong. You actually care about me. And the rest of 'em do, too.  _Man_ , that's a relief."

"Well," Skids said with a hint of a laugh, "I  _have_ been telling you that for a while."

"Yeah, yeah, but I didn't  _know_ until now, dude."

"So I've managed to convince you?"

"Yeah. You did. Reason being, I was thinking the same thing about you—" He poked Skids lightly in the chest. "—when that all was going down, and I care a lot about you, so you've got to care about me. Simple."

"Ha! I knew you'd get it. Except, now I don't have the chance to give you the rest of the exercise. Thought this'd take a lot longer."

"Oh, I don't know about that. How about you give me the Cole's notes?"

Skids' face screwed up like a turbofox's after it sniffed something funny. "Why would coal need notes?"

"I mean, a little overview. Summary, recap, synopsis, compilation. I'm the best at that kind of thing, but you can't be too bad, eh?"

"That only means I've learned from the best. I bet I could knock you out of the park." Skids pulled Swerve close again, throwing a hand out in front of them in an arc to show just how far past him he could go.

"Fire away."

"So." The hand came back, holding a finger up just in front of them. "Item one, the main event: when I think something's hurt you, I try to change it. It didn't work a lot of the time, but when I told you—just before you disappeared, when I told you that you'd made everyone happy, I meant it. It was wonderful, but you seemed so out of place, so I wanted you to know it."

"I…yeah, I remember that. I was sure you were just being nice since you were overcharged."

Skids flashed him a broad, shiny grin, not a Skidsy grin, but one that looked better on him.

"Oh, I  _was_ overcharged, you bet. I just meant what I said."

"You're saying that a lot. It'd almost make me think you were an honest 'bot."

"If they existed. Item two: I still remember how cared for me just after we found Getaway."

"Really?"

"Really. Three: I went with you to Rung's bedside to try and stop you tearing yourself up over that."

The memory played brightly on the inside of Swerve's visor, Skids finding him and speaking softly.

"Four: If you paid attention on our little field trip, you probably noticed my avatar looked like death warmed over."

"Could've just been that you had to search through the night for me."

"Doesn't explain how clingy I was, mate."

"Maybe."

Yeah, it didn't really make sense unless you accounted for maybe just tiniest, tiniest bit of fondness.

"And five: I can't not like you. You try to make people happy, you're a genius metallurgist, you mix a good engex cocktail when Brainstorm hasn't poisoned it all, and you give us good material for movie night. You're a good mech, and I care about you, even if you do get sick and die sometimes."

The sentence snapped off with an audible click from Skids' half-functional vocalizer.

Swerve felt like it was probably his turn to offer some comfort. Maybe he could stroke Skids' back as they sat together, feel his redlining systems run softer and smoother just like  _that_.

"Y'know, I'd say you deserve a lot better of a friend than me, and you  _have_ a lot better friends than me, but I'm going to promise you now that you're never going to get rid of me. Well. Unless one of us dies." He swallowed hard. "But anyway, I care about you. A lot. Probably a lot more than I should. And now I'm making this really awkward. But you're strong and you're fast and you're a freakin  _genius_ and you're so kind for some reason and I don't think you could stop mattering to me if you tried. I mean, sure you could make me hate you if you wanted, but it'd be  _because_ I cared about you. You know. I should probably stop talking now."

"Honestly, it's good to hear you talking again."

"You weren't saying that when all three of me were yapping the other day."

"Nope. I was stressed. And I regret it, so I'm saying it now."

Swerve considered this for a second, since he hadn't  _quite_ said everything yet. It was just that it was kind of hard to spit the rest out.

"So you're not lying right now, right? I mean, definitely."

"Not one bit."

"Good. I mean, I was, like 95% sure, but I needed to be 100% sure. You've not lied since you came in here."

"Yeah. At least, I was trying not to."

Skids laughed awkwardly, though it evened out when Swerve joined it.

"And you were saying—god, I can't even say it—you were saying—you said you…" His engine whined a protest like it was stuck in first gear on a highway, pushing against the tentative courage he'd found. "No. I can't. Yes, I'm going to say it. You said you loved me. And you were telling the truth?"

"Yeah, I was."

The sense of—of  _rightness_ washed over him like an acid ocean, eating away the last bits and pieces of his doubt.

"You love me."

"I do."

"You love me," he repeated, still in a daze. "Sorry. I'm not, like, trying to make your regret saying that. It's just that I can't stop talking you know? You love me. Who'd a thought it! Not that you wouldn't…I should really shut up now."

"Like I said, I'll listen as long as I have to."

"Good! Because, wouldn't you know, I love  _you_."

He beamed at Skids, floating up high somewhere he hadn't been in a long while.

"You do?"

"Yep! A whole lot, actually. Probably should have told you earlier, but hey! Better late than never."

"Yeah," Skids agreed, with a smile to melt his spark. "You're right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of the point where I stopped planning, so it's finished for the time being, but if anyone's got any requests feel free to send 'em in. Thanks so much to everyone who read/kudosed/commented!!


	8. Nautica II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skids hijacks book club to talk about his personal problems! But Nautica's also been worrying about her own stuff, so that's all right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really a proper chapter, but it was kicking around. Skids and Nautica's interactions are p funny since they're both massive, somewhat self-absorbed but good-intentioned nerds that were thrust into an unfamiliar and good situation and are kind of just making it up as they go along

Nautica poked him in the tire with her datapad. "You're moping again."

"Thanks."

"You said I should point it out to you! What's it this time?"

Skids settled his face in his hands, and stared glumly at the opposite wall.

"Swerve."

"Again? Lotty said you talked it out with him."

He let out a soft groan, and leaned sideways into her shoulder. "I did. Kind of."

"Then what's the matter?"

What  _was_ the matter? Swerve had followed him around until they ended up becoming friends, and then at some point they'd stopped spending as much time together with the new arrivals, and then Swerve started turning down his invitations, and then…

He still felt sick.

What was the matter?

"Alphabetically or chronologically?" he asked, and then thought the better of it. "Actually, if you don't want to hear me complaining for the next hour, you'd best tell me to shut up now."

"I've already finished," said Nautica, showing him the short story collection on her screen. She always kept one on the go to read while Skids was still catching up. "Besides, you've intrigued me. Let's go root causes first, then superficial ones."

"That's going to be hard." Skids rummaged quickly through his memories, trying to find some kind of  _beginning_  to it all. "Let's see…you know how I get bored."

"You've told me you do, but I haven't seen it."

"That's the thing, I drop something before I have the chance. Before that whole thing with the Dead Universe, I spent most of my time with Rung and Swerve. Then Getaway, then Teebs' gang, now you guys."

Nautica just laughed. He didn't know what he'd expected. "By that logic, Lotty and Thunders will be the only ones you talk to in two years' time."

"You're joking, but it could be true. I mean, I don't think I could be bored by you, but I might. Anyhow, I  _want_ to be around him, but…I feel like I'll just leave him again, or he'll feel like I'm only there because I have to be or—I don't know."

"That's never stopped you from talking to me, or Getaway, or Rung. There's got to be  _something_ else."

It was a fair point. Swerve was the only one he'd really fallen out of contact with. Except—no, even before, their meetings were always at the bar or in common spaces, never at their hab suites. The thing that had changed was that instead of spending time alone together, it was them and someone else.

"I don't know. Nope, wait, I do know. I know that everyone else has someone else, but he doesn't have anyone else he's really close to. If I get close, and then leave, he'll be hurt. Again."

"Your brain is working well enough to determine that that's not true, so I'm going to count that as your first stupid question of the day. You've got to remember, he's got Tailgate, and Rewind, and Bluestreak and all the regulars. Lotty says they're talking quite a lot now, actually. He's the only one in the medbay who knows anything about our culture." Nautica traced the patterns in his treads. "I hate to break it to you, Skids, but you're not that important."

She was right, he knew, but something about the realization stung.

"Aren't I?" he joked.

"Nope. Why not just tell him about your commitment issues? Firestar was quite upfront with me about the fact that we would not spend time together if we could help it."

Primus, he could imagine it. Part of him wondered if they'd had some sort of signed contract, or something else ensuring that they didn't have to tolerate each other any more than was necessary.

"Classic Firestar. I still don't know why you didn't find someone better."

He still didn't know why Swerve didn't find someone better.

"I didn't exactly have a choice, Skids. And she's not so bad, not now."

"You—yeah, I guess." Privately, he disagreed. Nautica could have had a dozen mechs on any given day, if she'd only asked. "Anyway, I  _don't_ want to be like Firestar. That's the point. I want to be a good friend, but…"

"I don't really understand, but I know what you're trying to say. Any other reasons why you're talking it out with me, and not him?"

"Getaway."

"Oh. But—you didn't know. There's no logic in blaming you."

"Nauts, that's a good point, logical, solid, but…Tailgate was  _his_  friend, Get—Getaway was  _my_  friend. That's enough of a link, for most people. Not to mention the fact that I'm a superlearner, and I  _still_ couldn't tell how far he was going to go."

"And that's—" Nautica punctuated it with a light tap of her hand. "—why you need to talk to Swerve again, if last time didn't sort it out. Tailgate, too. If you avoid them, are they going to think 'oh, Skids is feeling inadequate again'? Or are they going to wonder if you were on Getaway's side?"

"Ugh. You're right. I mean, I know he knows I'm on their side, but still."

"Does he?" teased Nautica. "Does he really? Are you sure? How can you be sure?"

" _Nautica,_ " he groaned.

"You told me to talk to Firestar. I'm telling you to talk to Swerve, and Tailgate."

"Again, Firestar's not the best comparison. But you're right. I just—" he waved his hands around, trying to pull some words out of the air that could describe it. "There's so much I've done, and so much I  _haven't_ done that I should have, and…"

"Oh! I think I've got it—you're self-flagellating."

"I'm what?"

"That awful conspiracy novel from a few weeks back. Remember?"

"With the creepy white mech who kept tearing off his plating and the weird theories about Primus?"

"Exactly! What the 'creepy white mech' does is self-flagellation." Nautica was making fun of him, wasn't she? "Self-harm done in the name of absolution for sins."

"You know I don't do religion."

"I do. But the word can be used in a secular context to describe excessive criticism or punishment of oneself in an attempt to make up for perceived wrongdoings. You feel guilty about Swerve, so you're wallowing as punishment." She elbowed him playfully in the side. "Have I got it? I mean, from what I know, I should be right, but I need you to confirm it."

"That's certainly a new analysis," he joked, "But you could be right. I'll have to think about it next time I read my biography."

The laughed, and Nautica picked up her datapad again, navigating to a short story anthology to pass the time while Skids finished this week's book.

It lasted about 5 minutes.

"Nautica?"

"Yes?"

"Are we thinking the same thing?"

"That short stories, as a genre, are better able to convey concepts but at heart don't have the length required to create characters that resonate with and entrance the reader?"

Well, that was actually pretty true, and one of the reasons he couldn't get into most data-light earth lit, but…

"You're being deadpan."

"Yes! Yes, I am, thank you for noticing."

"And  _that_ was sarcasm."

"Yes indeed."

"I can't believe you'd betray me like this."

"All right, all right, yes, I have a feeling we're both on the same page. Metaphorically."

"Yeah, I'm fairly far behind you literally."

"Literarily."

Skids had to laugh. "Good one. Bad one. Good bad one."

"Thanks."

They sat in silence for a moment more.

"Do you ever…sequels. That's it."

"We're doing a metaphor?"

"Yeah. You're my best friend, but it's a bit…"

Nautica sighed heavily, sympathetic rather than disappointed. "Too personal. I know how you feel. In fact, if we're doing this, I might give you my own later."

"Whatever you need, I'll try to help."

"I know. Go on."

"I've—I've read a lot of books. Some I like, some I don't like, some are fair enough the first time, but aren't good for a reread, you know? And when you find a  _great_ one, you want more. Except—you know the sequels are never as good as the original. So you're not sure…if you want more, or if reading more will…"

"Ruin it."

"I was trying to think of a different expression, but you're right. Like,  _Stars in the Heavens_ was brilliant, but  _Magma_ —it just didn't work."

"And once you've read the sequel, you can never go back. It could be better, it could pull you deeper—like with the  _Silicate Spark_ duology—or you could get bored and lose whatever relationship you had with the first book."

Honestly, he didn't know how he'd gotten by before he met Nautica. He'd had to finish his  _own_ sentences and complete his  _own_ thoughts, which was far too much trouble to be bothered with.

"Exactly. Schoedinger's sequel. You don't know what it'll do to you until it's too late."

"That's a terrible application of quantum mechanical theory, but yes, that works."

"It's a dilemma, then." Skids dropped his head in his hands, then leaned into the arm Nautica put around his shoulders. "So, any suggestions?"

"Are you the sequel or the reader in this scenario? Also, a dilemma is a choice between two equally unsavoury situations, not an equal risk of a good and a bad outcome."

"I stand eloquently corrected. And I'm not exactly sure which one it is, now that you mention it. Tell you what—you give me your embarrassing personal scenario in a metaphor, so we can both think about it."

"Sure. Give me a moment to come up with something suitable."

"Of course. Take your time."

She thought hard for a moment, biting her lower lip and resting her chin on her fist.

"Got it! Investing on the stock market."

"Huh, we haven't had one of those since before the war began. Civil war wasn't exactly good for the economy."

"Regardless, you know how it works. When a stock's value is rising, the temptation is to wait until the last possible moment to sell, because if it will be higher in the future, there will always be a better time."

He opened his archives quickly, dragging poor old Shocky's social studies from way back when. Whatever she was saying, it checked out.

"You think—you think that tomorrow, you'll do it. The next day. Next year. But then, you forget there's always the chance that the market will crash, and you missed your opportunity. So there's the constant feeling that if you do it now, it's not the best time, but if you do it tomorrow, it might be too late."

Her voice cracked on the last word, so Skids circled an arm around her waist and leaned further in.

"I know how you feel," he said, surprised by how rough his voice was.

"What do you think?"

"You probably know what I'll say."

Nautica sighed softly, then chuckled.

"You probably know I won't listen. Still, I'd like to hear it from you."

"If it'll help. I think, if you're on the up, go for it. I've—look at Cyclonus. He's cautious. Waited too long, took a loss. And he's a cranky old bastard, whereas  _you_ are a lithe, graceful, overqualified young thing. Plus, from what I can tell, you've been waiting for ages. It's as good now as it's ever been."

"Good point, but I'm actually 6 million years old."

Well. That was an embarrassing bombshell he was going to ignore for now, in case he realized he'd gone over a year not knowing his best friend was  _ancient_.

"Either you're joking, or I'm going to remember you said that in three days and go into shock. Back to the point: you're going to wait longer, aren't you?"

"I'm not joking, and I don't know. I think I might have to borrow your metaphor, because I  _want_ it, I want more, but I'm not sure if it'll turn out how I want it to turn out."

"Fair enough. Now, what do you say to me?"

She looked him squarely in the eyes, like she was sizing him up more than anything.

"I say, borrowing  _my_ metaphor, you waited too long and you just barely managed to ride out the market crash. Back to yours, as far as books go—you read the first one, what, three years ago? Four years ago?"

"Yeah, four years."

"So, you know it front to back and you can more or less read the sequel summary on Autopedia. I think it comes down to a matter of faith. In theory, you know what it's going to be like, so if you still want it after that, you should read it. Alternately, if someone's not sure if they should read you, prove that you're worth it. Be as good. Be better. I know you can be, if you put your mind to it."

"Oh, Nauts, what did I do without you?"

Without breaking eye contact, she flashed him a grin.

"From what I have heard and what you have told me, you did everything you do now, just with different people."

"So I went about my daily business less enlightened and less attacked, makes sense."

He really should disentangle himself, but Nautica was pleasantly warm and she wasn't making any attempts at moving, either.

"Really, if you're going to be like that, we may as well do our banter in the bar."

"I'll buy you a drink."

"So, did you find the help you wanted?"

"Yeah. I think I know what I've decided."

Nautica nodded into his shoulder.

"Me too."

"Swerve's, then? It's been open for an hour or so."

"Let's! Drinks on you, since you owe me for hijacking book club."

"If you were anyone else, I'd argue."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nautica's age comes from her being one of the mechs in LL25 who is noticeably greyer in the false future, and the one she's conflicted about is no one else but our Lotty, who she's known for ages but hasn't seen in a while, and she doesn't know whether she can just pick up where they left off or whether she has to build their relationship up again before she can ask her to be an amica
> 
> Also
> 
> Nautica's in-canon relationship with Skids is the one that I find the most boring for both of them, so this is mostly just me trying to figure it out so I can like it

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully I'll clean up this chapter and add some more, but who knows! Not much to add, other than a) the line about Skids' taste was supposed to have two meanings, b) Swerve has a bad case of tunnel vision, c) Skids subconsciously remembers the bomp, and d) the reason Skids' drinks knowledge is erased is because the diplomatic corps involved a lot of plain diplomacy and a lot of skulking around in bars waiting for informants, so he's got his own cool 'vodka martini. shaken, not stirred' signature drink that was a part of the job. I don't know. It seems like a Skids thing


End file.
